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goch 


to  JLorD 

LETTER  I 


My  dear  Bill, 

Why  did  you  go  and  bury  yourself  in  Ire- 
land, and  thus  deprive  me  of  my  only  safe- 
ty-valve ?  To  be  sure  I  still  talk  a  great 
deal,  but  when  I  seem  to  be  most  loqua- 
cious I'm  always  keeping  something  back. 
With  you  I  told  everything.  Perhaps  that 
is  why  you  went  to  Ireland.  You  thought 
that  "  the  price  of  peace  "  was  to  put  that 
stormy  bit  of  water  between  us  !  Lately  I 
have  wondered  why  we  gave  up  corre- 
sponding, and  I've  begun  to  feel  the  want 
of  it  terribly.  Can't  we  begin  again  ?  Do 
you  know,  Bill,  I've  got  to  a  time  in  my  life 

i 


,:   g^fle  c&atrlic 


when  I  need  support — not  only  financial 
(which  I  can't  accept  even  from  you),  but  a 
kind  of  moral  prop,  which  only  my  cousin 
Bill  can  supply.  The  time  of  life  I've  got  to 
is  horrid  ;  people  don't  talk  about  it  much  ; 
I  call  it  the  pepper-and-salt  stage — that  is, 
the  age  when  one's  front  hair  begins  not  to 
match  one's  back  hair.  I  still  look  young  in 
the  back ;  my  waist  goes  in  beautifully, 
thanks  to  a  resolute  meat  diet  during  a  por- 
tion of  every  year.  My  toque  (which  is  al- 
ways a  smart  one — you  remember  my  taste 
in  hats  ?)  shows  warm  chestnut  locks  at  the 
back  ;  but  in  front — isn't  it  disgusting  ? 
Nature  has  crimped  my  hair,  but  the  early 
snow  of  premature  middle  age  has  begun 
to  powder  the  waves.  Men  tell  me  it  is 
"  fetching  "—the  sort  of  men  who  swear 
they  love  a  pug  nose  unless  they're  talking 
to  a  woman  with  a  Grecian  one !  Thank 
Heaven  you  are  all  liars  !  What  should  we 
do  if  you  told  us  the  truth?  Yes,  Bill,  I 

2 


,  jnarcl)  to  lot* 


who  was  once  Early  English  have  become 
medieval.  Of  course,  hi  my  case  inconven- 
ient milestones  are  lacking  —  I  have  no 
children.  I  often  wish  I  had  had  a  baby  or 
two  —  to  snoozle  —  their  heads  are  so  nice 
to  browse  on.  The  softest  things  in  the 
world  are  horses'  noses,  the  soles  of  new 
boots,  and  babies'  heads.  Borrow  a  baby, 
and  see  if  I'm  not  right  ;  you've  got  horses 
and  boots. 

What  is  so  tiresome  about  me  is  that,  as  my 
face  grows  older  my  heart  grows  younger. 
All  the  blows  which  I've  sustained  during 
my  earthly  pilgrimage  have  left  my  pow- 
ers of  credulity  unimpaired.  I  am  always 
meeting  somebody  whom  I  think  I  could 
love.  The  somebody  always  has  a  previous 
attachment  ;  or  else  he  sails  for  South  Afri- 
ca, or  India,  or  the  North  Pole,  a  day  or 
two  after  I  meet  him.  Charlie  doesn't 
count.  What  is  the  good  of  a  husband 
who's  a  sailor,  and  who  lives  principally  on 

3 


Charlie 


the  West  Coast  of  Africa  ?  Charlie  is,  I 
suppose,  an  able  navigator  —  and  yet  he  ex- 
pects plain  sailing  with  me  !  Well,  nobody 
has  got  a  chart  of  my  mental  make  up 
but  you,  Bill.  I've  the  most  heavenly  idea 
of  friendship,  but  men  don't  like  it.  They 
either  make  love  to  me,  or  call  on  me  once 
in  three  months  and  talk  politics.  I  want  a 
man  who  will  run  errands  for  me  —  take  me 
to  the  play  —  save  me  trouble  at  every  turn 
—  and  dote  upon  me  —  discreetly.  Now  I 
find  that  if  they  dote  they  ain't  discreet, 
and  if  they're  discreet  they  don't  dote.  It's 
very  discouraging.  I  tell  Charlie  that  for 
me  he  doesn't  exist.  If  one  day  in  a  fit  of 
absence  of  mind  I  should  marry  somebody, 
there  isn't  a  judge  in  all  England  who 
would  convict  me  of  bigamy.  How  can  one 
believe  in  a  husband  whom  one  never  sees? 
It  would  at  once  elevate  a  man  to  the  level 
of  the  divine  !  and  Charlie  is  not  a  bit  God- 
like. 

4 


Jftarc^  to  lorn 


Ever  since  I  was  ten  years  old  I  have  fan- 
cied myself  in  love  ;  my  heart  has  been  al- 
ways like  a  pneumatic  tyre  ;  when  punct- 
ured it  becomes  empty.  But  soon  the 
breath  of  a  fresh  inspiration  inflates  it  to  its 
normal  dimensions  and  it  rolls  on  —  trium- 
phantly till  it  meets  the  next  tack  ! 
You  were  my  first  love,  Bill.  You  had  been 
abroad  for  years  at  school,  and  you  came  to 
mamma's  for  the  Easter  holidays.  Do  you 
remember?  There  was  something  about 
you  which  bowled  me  over.  That  first 
evening  I  was  allowed  to  come  down  to 
dessert.  Nurse  left  me  alone  for  a  few  min- 
utes ;  I  stood  before  the  glass,  and  tied  a 
blue  ribbon  amongst  my  curls. 
"Ah  !  "  I  sighed  dramatically,  to  my  image 
in  the  mirror,  "  I  have  someone  to  dress  for 
now  !  " 

Wasn't  that  delicious?  Ever  since  I've 
been  having  "someone  to  dress  for."  I  never 
put  on  a  low  gown  (my  shoulders  are  still 

5 


C^artfe 


very  good,  people  tell  me)  without  a  sense 
of  adventure,  of  expectancy.  All  my  life 
I've  been  on  tiptoe  to  meet  the  romance 
which  hasn't  come.  Tragic,  that  ! 
But  this  is  tiresome.  Tell  me,  dear  Bill, 
whether  you  are  willing  to  be  my  father 
confessor  ?  I  shan't  shock  you  much.  My 
sins  are  all  potential. 

Your  affectionate 
MARY. 

P.S.  —  Do  you  remember  my  telling  you 
that  I  was  "  hungry  for  love  "  ?  I  am  still, 
but  I  dare  not  say  so.  Hungry  is  a  word 
not  to  be  used  in  public  by  a  woman  who 
weighs  nearly  twelve  stone  !  It  is  only 
Providence  who  sees  the  heart. 


to 

LETTER  I 


My  very  dear  Mary, 

The  sight  of  your  handwriting  at  first 
perplexed  me,  it  was  so  familiar,  yet  so 
strange.  I  had  not  seen  it  for  two  years. 
What  suddenly  made  you  remember  me  ? 
I  bless  the  cause,  whatever  it  was.  Need  I 
tell  you  that  I  never  have  lost  interest  in 
you  —  never  for  a  moment?  My  reason 
for  settling  in  Ireland  was  not,  as  you  pre- 
tend to  think,  for  the  purpose  of  getting 
rid  of  my  favourite  cousin.  When  Uncle 
Darraway  died  I  was  obliged  to  come.  My 
one  virtue  is  that  I'm  a  painstaking  land- 
lord, not  an  absentee,  and  fairly  popular 
with  my  tenants.  Being  a  conscientious 
Irish  landlord  is  not  all  beer  and  skittles, 
7 


C&atlie 


as  no  doubt  you  know.  And  yet  I  love 
my  home.  I  am  not  the  cockney  that  you 
are.  London  grows  very  irksome  to  me 
after  a  few  weeks. 

What  you  say  about  yourself  is  delight- 
fully amusing.  No  one  ever  wrote  or  talked 
like  you,  Mary  ;  but  I  can't  imagine  you 
middle-aged.  To  me  you  are  always  the 
auburn-haired,  brown-eyed,  clever,  rather 
hoydenish  girl  whom  I  used  to  see  so 
much  of  at  one  time.  To  this  day  I  am 
living  on  your  witticisms.  I  fire  them  off 
at  dinner-parties  ;  but  I  always  preface 
them  with,  "  As  my  cousin  says,"  not  only 
because  I  am  naturally  honest,  but  be- 
cause all  my  friends  know  me  too  well  to 
believe  me  capable  of  your  jeux  d  esprit. 
You  tell  me  that  you  are  "  hungry  for 
love."  That  is  a  dangerous  frame  of  mind. 
There  are  plenty  of  unscrupulous  men 
going  about  who  would  be  interested  to 
know  this,  and  willing  to  profit  by  it. 
8 


Lorti  jEwratoa  to 


Your  one  fault  was  lack  of  reserve.  Don't 
be  vexed  with  me,  dear  ;  it  must  be  ex- 
ceedingly hard  for  such  a  brilliant  woman 
as  you  to  keep  a  guard  on  her  tongue,  es- 
pecially as  everyone  enjoys  your  conver- 
sation, and  urges  you  on  to  further  reve- 
lations. Few  men  are  to  be  trusted.  The 
man  who  thinks  lightly  of  a  woman's  hon- 
our has  very  little  of  his  own.  Remem- 
ber that.  You  are  essentially  pure  and 
straightforward,  and  your  position  is  a 
difficult  one.  Don't  forget  that  there  is 
such  a  person  as  Charlie,  though  he  is  on 
the  West  Coast,  and  that  he  believes  in 
you.  You  will  say  I  ought  to  have  been  a 
parson.  Yes,  I  will  be  your  confessor  ;  the 
prospect  doesn't  terrify  me.  Do  write 
often,  even  if  I  send  you  only  a  scrap  in 
return.  I'm  a  dull  letter-  writer  ;  but  I'm 

also 

Your  very  affectionate 

BILL. 


jttarc^  to  lotto 

LETTER  II 


Bill  dear, 

You've  lived  longer  than  I  have  ;  and  as 
Charlie  is  always  in  West  Africa,  I  simply 
must  have  a  nice  man  to  advise  me.  Tell 
me,  Bill,  what  connection  there  is  between 
cabs  and  kisses?  They  don't  even  begin  with 
the  same  letter,  though  they  sound  as  if 
they  did.  What  is  there  about  hansoms 
that  makes  one  feel  skittish  ?  One  always 
feels  awfully  correct  in  a  four-wheeler.  I 
think  a  growler  is  festooned  with  associa- 
tions of  a  domestic  nature  —  astral  bath- 
tubs and  prams  and  nursery  tin-boxes 
cling  to  the  roof  long  after  the  solid  ob- 
jective forms  have  left  it.  Whereas  the 
hansom  suggests  —  well,  all  sorts  of  de- 
10 


to  Lorti 


lightful  things  :  the  orange  lights  of  blue, 
half-misty,  nocturnal  London  ;  theatres, 
suppers  ;  pretty  opera-cloaks  with  collars, 
over  which  pretty  women  look  at  nice 
clean  men  with  beautiful  shirt-fronts  and 
cigarettes.  Yes,  Mr.  Hansom,  in  the  place 
of  departed  inventors,  has  much  to  answer 
for.  I  don't  care  much  about  the  little 
lamps  at  the  back.  The  light  is  trying  to 
a  face  over  thirty  (and  you  know,  Bill, 
mine  is  over  thirty).  I  always  get  Val,  or 
George,  or  Willie,  or  any  of  my  theatre- 
men  to  put  out  the  lamp,  and  then  it 
smells  to  heaven  —  or,  at  least,  to  the  roof 
of  the  hansom. 

Have  you  ever  noticed  that  when  you're 
with  a  perfectly  delightful  man  the  horse 
is  very  fleet  and  sound  ?  He  arrives  almost 
before  he  starts  ;  whereas,  when  one's  com- 
panion is  rather  boresome,  the  poor  old 
animal  limps  on  three  legs. 
Another  thing  worries  me,  Bill.  Why  does 


Charlie 


no  man  try  to  make  love  to  me  unless  he's 
mad  or  drunk  ?  There  was  one  poor  thing 
who  wanted  to  kiss  me  —  in  a  four-wheeler, 
too.  I  covered  my  head  in  my  cloak  and 
threatened  to  call  the  police.  Well,  in  a 
few  weeks  that  man  was  in  an  asylum  rav- 
ing mad.  Whether  he  went  mad  because 
he  couldn't  kiss  me,  or  wanted  to  kiss  me 
because  he  was  mad,  I  never  knew.  I  hope 
the  former,  but  fear  the  latter.  Men  —  sane 
ones  —  won't  take  me  seriously  ;  they  think 
me  a  flirt.  Stephen  —  a  friend  of  mine  who 
tells  me  the  truth  about  myself,  in  spite 
of  all  I  can  do  to  prevent  it  —  says  I  have 
"  good  eyes."  Isn't  that  tiresome  ? 
I  believe  a  Calvinistic  bringing  up  always 
gets  the  best  of  you.  You  smother  it,  and 
think  it's  done  for  ;  and  it  goes  and  sits 
behind  your  eyes  where  you  can't  see  it, 
but  everyone  else  can.  It  keeps  people  off. 
Bill,  I've  heard  men  called  devils  ;  they're 
not.  "  Resist  the  devil,  and  he  will  flee  from 
12 


to 


you."  Dont  resist  a  man,  and  he'll  flee 
quicker  than  any  devil.  You  try  ;  but  you 
can't,  not  being  a  woman,  you  lucky  creat- 
ure ! 

I  once  had  a  real  declaration  in  a  hansom. 
It  wasn't  really  very  proper,  except  that  I 
didn't  like  the  man,  which  made  it  all  right 
for  me,  if  not  for  him. 
He  was  an  American.  A  man  sent  to  me 
by  Beatrice.  You  remember  that  my  sis- 
ter Beatrice  married  an  American  and  lives 
in  New  York.  She  has  a  train  of  admirers 
ranging  in  age  from  twenty  to  sixty.  This 
man  was  one  —  he  was  about  forty.  Beat- 
rice had  been  bored  by  him,  and  turned 
him  loose  on  me.  He  was  very  tall,  and 
looked  rather  like  an  American  Indian. 
He  had  a  large  nose,  which  he  used  a  good 
deal  in  talking.  He  asked  me  to  go  to  the 
play,  and  though  I  didn't  want  to  go,  I 
hesitated  to  hurt  his  feelings  by  declining. 
I  meant  to  keep  it  dark  ;  but  he  at  once 
13 


Cfraflte  gteg 


told  one  of  the  secretaries  of  his  Embassy 
—  a  most  exclusive  person  who  stands  well 
with  the  aristocracy  —  and  I  really  was 
vexed.  However,  my  motto  is  :  "  Don't  do 
anything  you're  ashamed  of,  or  don't  be 
ashamed  of  anything  you  do."  My  strong 
card  is  candour  ;  I  tell  everything  about 
myself  before  anybody  has  a  chance  to  find 
it  out.  Therefore,  my  friend  came  to  dine, 
and  we  went  to  the  play  —  in  a  hansom. 
I  never  felt  calmer  in  my  life.  I  couldn't 
have  summoned  up  so  much  as  a  coquet- 
tish look.  The  cab  might  as  well  have  been 
a  bus  —  I  had  lots  of  room.  All  went  well. 
We  sat  out  the  play,  and  I  was  more  in- 
terested in  that  than  in  my  aboriginal  gen- 
tleman. 

You  have  heard  of  "  bolts  from  the  blue." 
I  got  one.  Just  as  my  swain  was  putting 
on  my  cloak  he  whispered  with  some  calm- 
ness :  "  I  have  loved  you  ever  since  I  first 
saw  you." 

14 


to 


For  the  first  time  I  experienced  a  slight 
thrill  of  interest  in  the  Senator.  I  said  only  : 
"  Save  the  rest  till  we  catch  a  cab." 
When  we  were  safely  in  I  said:  "Mr. 

—  ,  you  interest  me.  Go  on." 
I'm  sorry  that  even  the  American  pen- 
holder which  I  am  now  using  cannot  en- 
able me  to  reproduce  his  accent.  You've 
been  in  the  States  ;  lay  it  on  for  yourself, 
please. 

"  Mrs.  March  "  (a  Western  r),  "  ever  since 
I  saw  you  I  felt  your  attraction.  When  I 
saw  you  to-night  it  was  all  I  could  do  not 
to  take  you  in  my  arms  !  " 
"  Dear  me  !  How  lucky  you  didn't  !  I 
should  have  been  so  surprised  !  " 
All  this  time  he  hugged  nothing  but  his 
side  of  the  cab.  He  was  not  frivolous  ;  his 
love-making  was  serious.  I  bubbled  in- 
wardly, feeling  like  a  kettle  just  on  the 
boil  ;  but  my  face  was,  I  think,  calm.  I  did 
wish  Charlie  had  been  there  ;  but  then,  of 
15 


Charlie  Was 


course,  nothing  would  have  happened.  I 
thought  of  the  virtuous  indignation  which 
ought  to  be  displayed  by  an  insulted  ma- 
tron ;  but  somehow  I  couldn't  feel  it.  I 
couldn't  stop  him.  I  never  was  able  to  leave 
the  theatre  before  the  end  of  the  first  act, 
even  when  the  play  was  improper. 
"  Now,"  continued  Mr.  --  ,  "  I  think  you 
are  unhappy." 

"  There  is  a  void  in  my  life,"  I  sighed  mod- 
estly. 

"  I  knew  it,"  said  he.  "  You  are  a  neglected 
and  unappreciated  woman.  "  (  I  sighed  again. 
This  was  too  true.)  "  I  want  to  make  you 
happy.  I  will  be  your  friend,  your  confi- 
dant, or  your  lover.  It  is  for  you  to  choose." 
It  was  my  first  square  offer.  I  pondered. 
Then,  in  a  silvery  voice,  I  began.  You 
needn't  hear  all  my  speech.  It  was  very 
beautiful,  very  touching,  very  pure.  I 
partly  meant  it  and  partly  I  didn't.  (You 
know  what  humbugs  we  all  are,  really.)  It 
16 


to  totfi 


began  :  "  Love  has  no  place  in  my  pro- 
gramme," and  it  ended  with  remarks  in 
praise  of  goodness.  Do  you  know,  Bill, 
if  it  hadn't  amused  me  it  would  have  made 
me  sick.  And  then  a  horrid  little  thought 
reared  its  ugly  head  like  a  venomous  lit- 
tle snake  :  "  Would  you  have  answered 
like  that  if  it  had  been  --  ,  or  -  —  ,  or 
even  -  ?  "  Oh,  we're  all  horrid,  more 
or  less. 

My  admirer  went  on  to  say  that  it  was  a 
sin  to  stifle  one's  emotions.  You  know  the 
sort  of  thing  —  rather  like  a  free-love  tract, 
I  fancy,  though  I  never  read  one. 
I  said,  with  a  sudden  wholesome  sense  of 
amusement  :  "  What  should  I  get  out  of 
this  arrangement  ?  You  told  me  your  in- 
come was  precarious,  and  I  don't  love 
you." 

That  was  a  poser  !  He  was  silent  till  the 

cab  drew  up  at  my  little  house.  As  he  was 

still  speechless,  I  went  on  :  "We  can  never 

17 


go  anywhere  together  again,  Mr.  . 

You  have  betrayed  my  confidence ;  you 
have  taken  advantage  of  me."  He  began 
to  justify  himself  while  I  rang  the  bell  (I 
had  no  latch-key  that  night),  and  my  vig- 
ilant little  maid  Janet  let  me  in  before  he 
got  through  his  first  sentence.  So  offended 
Virtue  stalked  into  the  house  and  slammed 
the  door  on  unsuccessful  Vice. 
Would  you  believe  it  ?  He  came  to  call 
two  days  after,  and  got  on  to  his  knees, 
asking  me  to  kiss  him  good-bye ;  and  I 
hauled  him  up  just  as  Mrs.  Brabazon  was 
announced  1  In  the  course  of  conversation 
after  he'd  gone  she  said :  "  How  carelessly 

American    politicians  dress !   Mr. 's 

knees  were  quite  dusty ! "  That  was  a  nasty 
one  for — for  my  housemaid  ! 
So  thus,  my  dear  Bill,  ends  my  observa- 
tions on  the  moral  effect  of  the  hansom 
cab.  I  am,  however,  still  collecting  data. 

M.  M. 
18 


to 

LETTER  II 


My  dear  Mary, 

Your  letter  about  cabs  has  almost  killed 
me.  I've  got  a  stitch  in  my  side  still  from 
laughing.  How  naughty,  how  shameless 
you  are  !  but  how  irresistible  !  No  wonder 
that  even  growlers  have  no  restraining  in- 
fluence on  a  man  when  he's  in  one  with 
you  !  But  I  hope  some  day  I  shall  have  the 
pleasure  of  punching  your  Yankee's  head. 
What  an  extraordinary  woman  you  are  ! 
You  experiment  on  these  helpless  creat- 
ures, and  yet  you  belong  to  the  Anti-  Viv- 
isectionist  Society  !  I  don't  understand 
philandering.  I  know  love,  and  I  know 
friendship,  but  on  the  slippery  debatable 
land  between  I  shall  never  set  my  feet. 
19 


CWe 


Constant  coquetry  is  very  unwholesome. 
It  is  enervating  to  the  mind,  it  takes  off 
the  bloom  of  a  woman's  purity,  and  is  as 
pernicious  as  constant  dram-drinking.  I 
very  much  fear  that  you  are  incapable  of 
friendship  ;  but  Lord  !  you  are  funny  !  I 
can't  be  hard  on  you  when  you  write  such 
letters  all  for  me. 

It's  a  pity  you  were  brought  up  a  Calvin- 
ist.  The  rebound  in  middle-age  is  gener- 
ally appalling.  I  wish  you  would  become  a 
Catholic,  and  have  a  real  confessor.  I  sus- 
pect you'll  end  up  that  way. 

BILL. 


\ 


20 


to 

LETTER  III 


My  dear  Bill, 

Do  you  know  Mrs.  Bobby  Brabazon?  — 
a  good-looking  woman,  ten  years  older 
than  I  am,  who  looks  ten  years  younger.  I 
hate  women  to  be  like  that,  don't  you  ?  It's 
so  deceitful.  Mrs.  Bobby  (as  her  intimates 
call  her)  is  a  widow.  She  has  three  daugh- 
ters concealed  somewhere  on  the  Conti- 
nent, "  learning  languages,"  she  says.  Peo- 
ple who  don't  like  Mrs.  B.  say  that  the  girls 
have  been  there  so  long  that  they  have 
learned  every  available  tongue,  including 
Russian,  and  that  they  sail  next  month 
(with  a  governess)  for  Japan  —  just  in  time 
for  the  cherry-blossoms.  Miss  White  says 
21 


Charlie 


the  eldest  daughter  is  married,  and  has  a 
baby  ;  but  I  don't  believe  that.  Nobody 
who  knows  Mrs.  Bobby  could  think  she 
would  ever  allow  anyone  to  make  her  a 
grandmother. 

Mrs.  Bobby  is  very  soft  and  sweet.  She  is 
a  kind  of  moral  survival  of  the  medieval 
prisoners.  She  picks  out  a  victim  and  dis- 
tils little  drops  of  calumny  into  his  cup  of 
life,  until  she  has  killed  his  reputation,  and 
she  purrs  so  gently  all  the  time  !  She  has 
large  green  eyes,  quite  lovely,  and  she  fas- 
tens them  on  your  face,  and  what  with 
them  and  her  rolls  of  beautiful  golden 
hairs,  and  her  sweet  little  undulating  gest- 
ures, you  are  hypnotized,  and  find  your- 
self babbling  the  secrets  of  your  soul  ;  and 
next  day  you  go  out  to  tea  and  meet  them 
—  with  trimmings.  Mrs.  Bobby  tells  all  her 
own  secrets,  too  ;  she  doesn't  spare  herself  ; 
but  somehow  she  tells  them  so  nicely  they 
seem  all  right.  If  she  were  to  say  to  you 
22 


to  lorn 


that  she  had  killed  her  late  husband,  you 
would  think  :  "  Quite  right  !  No  doubt  he 
deserved  it,"  whereas,  in  point  of  fact,  I 
believe  he  killed  himself. 
Mrs.  Brabazon  went  out  to  tea  the  other 
day  —  she  haunts  teas  —  looking  lovely  and 
disgustingly  young  in  a  big  black  hat,  the 
kind  that  kicks  up  and  makes  one  side  of 
you  look  saucy,  and  drops  down  on  the 
other  and  gives  your  right  cheek  a  senti- 
mental retired  air.  She  began  talking  to 
me. 

"  Isn't  it  sad,  dear  Mrs.  March,  to  think 
that  the  truth  has  come  out  at  last  about 
poor  Jimmy  Southcote  ?  " 
"  What  about  him  ?  "  said  I,  girding  on 
the  mental  armour  which  I  keep  exclus- 
ively for  tilts  with  this  lady. 
"Why,  he  killed  his  grandmother,  you 
know  ;  that  we  all  knew,  but  of  course 
one  never  liked  to  mention  it.  It  was  one 
of  those  understood  things  which  aren't 
23 


C^arlfe  Wag 


said."   ("  I  wish  there  were  a  few  more," 
thought  I.) 

"It  was  for  the  rubies,  you  know  —  the 
famous  Southcote  rubies.  Poor  Lord 
Jimmy  was  in  love  with  Ruby  Montague 
—  the  girl  with  the  high  kick  ;  you've  seen 
her.  She  was  always  uppish  (her  papa 
was  a  fishmonger),  and  she  would  wear 
nothing  but  rubies,  because  of  her  name. 
Rubies  are  scarce,  you  know." 
"  As  scarce  as  truth,"  I  acquiesced,  with  a 
bite  of  muffin. 

"  Oh,  scarcer.  Well,  Jimmy  thought  the 
old  lady  had  lived  long  enough  —  eighty 
years,  really,  are  a  pretty  good  innings  !  — 
and  he  gave  her  insect-powder  in  her 
barley-water.  Unfortunately,  the  nurse 
suspected  it,  and  has  now  begun  to  talk 
about  it.  Rather  mean  of  her,  I  call  it.  I 
suspect  she  got  no  legacy." 
I  could  only  gasp,  accustomed  as  I  am 
to  Mrs.  Bobby  ;  but  I  had  no  time  to 
24 


to 


speak.    An   elderly,  frumpy  lady,    badly 
dressed,  pushed  forward  from  behind  us. 
"  Madam,"  said  she    in   an   awful  voice, 
"  do  you  know  that  you  are  talking  about 
my  son  ?  " 

Mrs.  Bobby  didn't  turn  a  hair.  She  looked 
at  the  livid  lady  and  cooed. 
"  Really  ?  "  said  she.  "  How  deeply,  deep- 
ly interesting  !   So  you  are   Lady  Cote- 
worth?" 
"  I  am,  madam." 

"  So  charmed  !  Now,  you  can  tell  me 
whether  it  was  insect-powder  or  a  disin- 
fectant. And  are  the  rubies  really  worth 
aU  that  trouble  ?  " 

"  Madam,"  thundered  the  Marchioness  (it 
really  was  she),  "let  me  tell  you  that, 
first  of  all,  my  mother-in-law  is  not 
dead  ;  and,  secondly,  she  never  had  any 
rubies  !  " 

"  Good  gracious!"  said  Mrs.  Bobby.  "How 
malicious  people  are  !  " 
25 


Charlie 


"But,"  proceeded  Lady  Coteworth,  "thank 
God  there  is  a  libel  law!"  and  she  marched 
off,  I  think,  to  fetch  a  policeman. 
But  Mrs.  Bobby  left  a  few  moments  after 
for  the  Clover  Club,  of  which  she  is  the 
brightest  ornament. 

I  hadn't  done  gasping  when  young  Bankes 
came  up.  (Valentine  Bankes  is  a  tall  boy 
with  golden  hair  and  a  beautiful  mouth. 
His  father  was  an  actor,  and  so  is  he  —  at 
least  he's  on  the  stage.) 
"What  was  the  dear  lady  saying?  Any- 
thing about  me?"  he  asked  in  his  delicious 
voice.  (He  is  a  dear  lamb!  I  must  cul- 
tivate him.) 

"  No,  dear  child,"  said  I.  (I'm  by  way  of 
mothering  Val,  as  he's  an  orphan.)  "She 
had  no  time  for  you.  She  was  romping 
about  in  the  House  of  Lords." 
"  Well,  you  needn't  snub  me,"  said  Val. 
(He  is  six  feet  two,  and  so  sweet  !)  "  The 
next  House  of  Lords  will  be  half  Ameri- 
26 


to  Lorn 


can  and  half  theatrical.  If  there  aren't  any 
actors  there,  there  will  at  least  be  plenty 
of  actresses'  sons." 

"  The  actors,"  I  observed,  "  are  mostly  in 
the  Commons." 

"  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  !  "  he  sighed. 
That  was  perfectly  irrelevant,  I  thought. 
"Don't  look  at  me,"  saidl.  "I'm  getting  old 
and  ugly." 

"I  hate  young  pretty  women,"  said  the 
child. 

(Oh,  Bill  !  what  can  you  do  with  a  boy  like 
that?) 

"  You're  hopeless,"  I  said. 
"  I  wish  you  could  make  me  less  so." 
(That  wasn't  bad  for  the  lamb  ;  he's  rather 
inarticulate,  like  most  very  big  men.) 
"You  won't  do,"  I  said.  "  I'm  looking  for 
something  to  guide  me  —  to  be  a  pole-star." 
"  Oh,  let  me  be  your  pole-star  !  "  he  said, 
looking  red  and  eager. 
"You're  all  right  for  a  pole,  dear  Val; 
3  27 


C^arlfe 


but  I'm  blest  if  you'll  ever  be  a  star!" 
said  I. 

Wasn't  that  rather  smart  ?  I  did  so  enjoy 
my  own  joke  (you  know,  I  always  did)  ; 
but  Val  went  off  looking  awfully  sad,  and  I 
saw  him  drinking  three  cups  of  poisonous 
strong  tea.  I  must  see  more  of  Val. 


28 


to 

LETTER  IV 


My  dear  Bill, 

Do  you  like  restaurants?  Charlie  never 
will  go  to  one.  If  I  ever  want  to  give  the 
maids  a  holiday,  and  propose  a  meal  some- 
where, he  says  :  "Some  bread  and  milk  or 
cold  meat  will  do  for  me.  I'm  no  trouble. 
But  I  won't  go  to  a  restaurant." 
No  trouble,  indeed  !  As  if  that  kind  of  a 
man  wasn't  more  troublesome  than  any 
other  kind  !  One's  own  man  is,  of  course, 
the  troublesome  one;  the  others  are  de- 
lightful sphinxes  —  unsolved  riddles.  Hus- 
bands are  like  conundrums  with  the  an- 
swers attached.  No  missing-  word  compe- 
tition there  ;  one  guesses  the  word  too 
quickly,  and  yet  never  gets  the  prize. 
29 


Charlie 


Instead  of  putting  on  a  smart  gown  and 
going  off  in  a  hansom  to  a  warm,  bright 
place  full  of  people,  eating  a  good  dinner 
invented  by  somebody  else  (which  is  the 
great  thing)  and  drinking  a  little  cham- 
pagne as  a  treat,  I  sit  down  at  home  over 
a  gas-fire  and  eat  horrible  cold  ham,  while 
Charlie  munches  bread  -  and  -  butter  and 
doesn't  know  the  difference  ;  and  after 
feeding  —  you  can't  call  it  eating  —  he  reads 
Captain  Mahan's  sea-books  till  bedtime. 
Well,  Charlie,  thanks  be  to  the  Admiralty, 
is  in  West  Africa.  The  Admiralty  mayn't 
be  strong  on  tube-  boilers,  but  it  has  re- 
lieved me  of  Charlie.  It  serves  him  right 
that  there  are  no  restaurants  on  the  West 
Coast. 

These  caustic  remarks  are  a  preface  to  the 
statement  that  Herbert  Forbes  last  week 
asked  me  to  dine  at  the  Criterion  in  the 
East  Room,  and  go  to  his  play.  The  lucky 
creature  has  two  plays  running  at  once, 
30 


to  lot* 


besides  being  one  of  the  most  celebrated 
authors  of  the  present  day.  Did  you  ever 
meet  Forbes?  Of  course,  you  know  his 
delightful  books.  Everyone  loves  them,  ex- 
cept rival  authors,  who  are  nearly  dead  of 
envy  because  they  didn't  write  them  them- 
selves. Herbert's  a  dear  !  We  don't  often 
meet,  but  when  we  do  we  are  excellent 
friends.  He  dines  with  me  at  least  once  a 
year,  and  I  generally  go  to  a  jolly  restau- 
rant luncheon  with  him  every  few  months. 
He  is  one  of  the  men  who,  having  got  to 
the  top  of  the  tree,  find  it  unsatisfactory, 
and  look  as  if  they  want  to  jump  down. 
He  looks  ascetic  and  sacerdotal,  but  I 
don't  believe  he  is.  As  his  fame  grows 
his  baldness  increases.  His  hot  brain  has 
burned  a  hole  in  his  hair.  For  six  years  I 
have  murmured  to  him  at  dinners  be- 
tween the  courses  such  suggestive  words 
as  "  Rosemary  water  —  Koko  —  Macassar," 
but  he  has  so  little  vanity  that  he  contin- 


Cfrartf  e  gteg 


ues  to  neglect  his  looks.  His  midnight  oil 

evidently  isn't  hair-oil. 

I   always  feel  awfully   flattered  by  the 

slightest  attention  from  Bertie  ;  so  when 

he  asked  me  whether   we   should  dine 

alone,  or  ask  other  people,  my  heart  leaped 

with    pride.  The    invitation    came  when 

Kate  Vernon  was  with  me.  You  don't 

know  Kate.  She  is  the  only  person,  except 

Stephen,  who  always  tells  me  the  truth  — 

and  yet  I'm  fond  of  her.  She  is  a  moral, 

soda-mint  tablet.  She  cures  mental  indiges- 

tion, only  I  won't  always  swallow  her. 

"  Look  here,"  said  I  :  "am  I  old  enough  to 

dine  in  the  East  Room  with  Bertie  Forbes 

—alone?" 

"  Has  he  taken  the  whole  room,  then  ?  " 

said  she.  "  Dear  me  !  Bertie  must  be  pros- 

perous." 

"  Don't  be   silly  1  You  know  quite  well 

what  I  mean.  We  shall  be  alone  at  the 

table." 

32 


to  Lotto 


6  There'll  be  a  waiter  or  two  I  suppose  ?  " 
Kate  maddens  me  1 
"  Am  I  old  enough  to  go  ?  "  I  roared. 
"  My  dear,  you  are  old  enough  for  any- 
thing —  even  to  settle  down." 
Wasn't  that  a  stinger  ?  I  nearly  cried. 
"  Oh,  Kate  !  "  I  almost  sobbed.  "  You  are 
horrid!" 

"  I've  got  a  new  name  for  you,  Mary,"  said 
she. 

"Not     *  Forward,     March'?  I've     heard 
that." 

"  No.  The  Octopus." 
"  Why?  That's  a  big  devil-fish." 
"  I  know  ;  and  you've  sometimes  got  more 
devil  in  you  than  fish,  I'll  admit.  But,  like 
the  octopus,  you  are  always  reaching  out. 
You  told  me  so  yourself." 
"  Reaching  out  1  Oh  yes  ;  for  sympathy  — 
and  love." 

"  Tell  me,  now,  Mary,  do  you  ever  catch 
anything  ?  Honour  bright,  now!" 
33 


C&aflie 


I  was  so  angry  that   I  smoked  a  whole 
cigarette  without  speaking.  Kate  quietly 
drank  two  cups  of  tea,  then  observed  : 
"  There's  another  thing  in  which  you  re- 
semble   the    octopus.  You   spatter    your 
whereabouts  with  floods  of  ink." 
This  was  a  malicious  allusion  to  my  letters 
to  you,  Bill. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  every  author  is  in  that 
sense  a  devil-fish." 
"  Printer's  devil,"  murmured  Kate. 
"He  conceals  his  identity  by  means  of 
ink." 

"Or  advertises  it  like  —  '  Here  she 
mentioned  two  of  our  really  popular  nov- 
elists, missionaries  to  the  servants'  halls  of 
England. 

"  Do  stop  playing  on  words,"  said  I.  "Can 
I  go  to  dinner  with  Bertie  ?  " 
"  Of  course.  You  meant  to  all  along." 
So  I  wrote  a  note  of  acceptance,  and  went 
to  the  Burlington  Arcade  and  bought  a 
34 


to  lot* 


pair  of  shoes.  Shoes  show  so,  getting  in 
and  out  of  hansoms.  They  were  black 
satin,  with  little  gilt  buckles.  My  stock- 
ings were  open-work  black  silk.  I  also  had 
a  lace-trimmed  petticoat,  which  looks 
creamy  and  foamy  under  my  black  gown. 
My  poor  old  black  gown  !  It's  horrid  to  be 
poor,  Bill,  unless  you're  a  costermonger  or 
something  in  the  East  End.  There's  some 
sense  in  it  then.  That  old  black  satin  holds 
together  wonderfully,  and  still  looks  re- 
spectable —  at  least,  the  skirt  does.  The 
bodice  hugs  me  demurely,  except  on  the 
shoulders,  where  it  threatens  to  leave  al- 
together, but  is  coerced  by  black  velvet 
straps,  on  which  I  pin  diamond  sham- 
rocks. They  always  make  me  think  of  you, 
Bill,  in  Ireland. 

I  select  my  hair  ornament  according  to 
my  feelings.  On  the  evenings  when  I've 
had  a  letter  from  Charlie  and  feel  de- 
pressed, I  look  old  and  haggard  —  plumply 
35 


Cfrartfc  %?ag 


haggard,  which  is  too  awful  ;  I  wear  a 
moth-eaten  old  bow  that  I've  had  for  ages. 
When  I  feel  chastened,  but  calmly  hope- 
ful, or  IVe  had  a  Turkish  bath,  I  don  a 
wreath  of  violets.  (Violets  look  discreet 
and  non-committal.)  When,  however,  the 
world  has  gone  well  with  me,  when  the 
bills  are  low,  and  my  balance  at  the  bank 
rather  higher  than  usual  —  when,  in  short, 
for  the  moment  I  ride  on  the  crest  of  the 
wave,  I  stick  in  my  hair  a  tall  pair  of  steel 
wings  that  shine  out  boldly  and  challenge 
high  heaven  with  their  tips. 
For  Bertie's  dinner  I  wore  the  wings. 
Though  I  arrived  punctually  —  I'm  always 
so  punctual  as  to  be  ahead  of  time  — 
Bertie  was  there.  I  sailed  into  the  East 
Room,  and  found  him  waiting.  It  was 
nice  to  see  him  again,  and  he  was  very 
cordial.  I  was  in  wild  spirits.  I  wanted  to 
make  a  kind  of  innocent  adventure  of  it. 
I  hoped  that  Bertie  would  pretend  to 
36 


to  JLorD 


like  me  a  lot,  just  for  the  fun  of  that 
verbal  fencing  in  which  you  tell  me  I 
am  proficient.  He  is  extremely  witty,  and 
doesn't  keep  his  coruscations  for  the  pub- 
lic alone.  So  many  authors  won't  let  their 
clever  things  drop  unless  there  is  paper  at 
hand  to  catch  them. 

After  we'd   got   through  the   common- 
places of  conventional  greeting,  I  said  : 
"  I'm  going  to   call    you    '  Bertie  '  this 
evening,  if  you  don't  mind  ;  but  not  be- 
fore people." 

"  Not  before  people,  please,"  said  Forbes, 
devouring  his  hors  dceuvre. 
I  refused  to  be  chilled  ;  I  said  : 
"  I've   simply  dreamed  of  this  evening. 
It's  such  a  pleasure  !  " 
"That's  all  right,"  said  Bertie,  going  on 
to  soup.  "I've  ordered  you  an  awfully 
good  dinner." 

"  I'm  not  very  hungry.  Do  pretend  to  be 
interested  in  me  —  just  for  one  evening." 
37 


C^atlfe 


"  The  truth  is,  I  Ve  got  out  of  the  habit  of 

falling  in  love  —  and  I'm  awfully  interested 

in  my  new  flat." 

"Are   love-making  and  flats  incompat- 

ible ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  they  have  been  known 

to  do  well  in  conjunction,  but  mine  is  a 

highly  moral  flat." 

"  And  you  prefer  this  new  interest  to  old 

friends  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,  but  I'm  mad  just  at  pres- 

ent on  my  Chippendale  furniture." 

"  Ah,"  I  sighed,  "  I  can't  compete  !  I'm 

not  built  on  Chippendale  lines." 

Forbes  did  me  the  honour  to  laugh. 

"  You  are  delicious,  irrespective  of  lines," 

said  he.  "  Try  this  sauce  ;  it's  good.  I'm 

awfully  hungry." 

"So  you  seem.  I  love  to  see  you  so  — 

healthy." 

"  I've    been    ill,    you    know  —  heart    all 

wrong." 

38 


jftarc^  to  JLorD 


"  It's  all  right  now,  I  imagine." 

"  Yes,  thank  goodness  !  " 

The   sweetbread    stopped  his   utterance. 

Presently,  "  How's  Charlie  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  Oh,  just  the  same,  I  suppose." 

"  I'm  rather  sorry  for  Charlie." 

"  Why  ?  He  doesn't  see  much  of  me  !  " 

Bertie  bowed  gaily,  and  appeared  to  mean 

something  flattering. 

"  You're  hard  on  Charlie,"  he  said. 

That  nearly  touched  me  off,  but  I  gulped 

champagne,  and  the  crisis  was  drowned 

in  the  foam.   Here  I  was,  dining  alone 

with  a  famous  author,  and  I  wasn't  en- 

joying myself  a  bit.  I  looked  round  the 

room,  and  saw  several  quite  stupid,  com- 

mon   men  —  stockbrokers    they    looked 

like  -  -  making   their    companions    quite 

happy. 

I  could  have  cried.  Bertie,  between  two 

mouthfuls   of  poulet  roti,   observed  my 

sudden  silence. 

39 


Charlie 


"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked  genially. 
"  My  dear  girl,  you're  not  eating  ?  " 
"  I'm  not  a  girl,  nor  dear,  nor  yours,  Mr. 
Forbes  !  "  I  snapped. 
Bertie  laughed  his  peculiar  drawly  laugh. 
He  can  be  so  fascinating  ! 
"  Don't  be  vexed,  Mrs.  Charlie,"  he  said 
sweetly.  "  I   shan't    bore    you  long.  We 
shall  be  at  the  theatre  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour." 

And  so  we  were.  We  had  the  Royal  box, 
and  a  jolly  little  room  at  the  back  where 
we  smoked  between  the  acts.  It  would 
have  been  charming  if  Bertie  had  cared 
whether  I  lived  or  died.  But  he  didn't. 
I  thought  I'd  ask  him  in  when  he  took 
me  home,  and  give  him  a  whisky-and- 
soda.  What  do  you  think  he  did  ?  He  put 
me  into  a  cab  and  said  :  "  You  won't  think 
me  rude,  Mrs.  March,  will  you,  if  I  don't 
take  you  home  ?  I've  been  very  seedy,  and 
my  doctor  forbids  late  hours." 
40 


Jttarclj  to  JLorH 


"Of  course  not,"   I   said  fervently;   "I 
much    prefer  to  go  alone!   Good-night! 
It's   been  such  a  pleasure.  Thanks    aw- 
fully  ----  " 
New  shoes  just  for  that  ! 


to 

LETTER  III 


Dear  Mary, 

Your  two  letters  came  together,  so  I  shall 
answer  them  at  once.  I'm  a  sort  of  running 
commentary  on  your  cleverness  —  like  the 
Gilbert  and  Sullivan  choruses,  rather. 
Your  pictures  of  London  society  make  me 
love  my  empty  old  house.  Women  like 
Mrs.  B.  B.  ought  to  be  tarred  and  feath- 
ered, or  ducked,  as  gossips  and  slanderers 
were  in  the  good  old  days.  Do  spare  poor 
young  Bankes  !  and  don't  tell  him  he  has 
got  a  lovely  mouth.  You  are  too  original 
to  say  what  every  other  woman  has  said 
already.  It's  bad  enough  for  a  boy  to  be 
handsome  and  on  the  stage,  without  his 
hearing  about  his  mouth. 
42 


Lorn  ^armtoai?  to  jttt& 


Your  account  of  your  dinner  with  Her- 
bert Forbes  was  delightful.  But  why  should 
you  buy  new  shoes  on  his  account  ?  You 
are  angry  because  he  wouldn't  flirt  with 
you.  My  dear,  you  are  too  good  for  this 
nonsense.  Do  try  to  take  an  interest  in 
something  !  Sometimes  I  think  I  shall  have 
to  come  to  London,  simply  to  look  after 
you  ;  but  I  can't  get  away.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
you  would  make  me  as  silly  as  all  the  rest. 
Your  affectionate,  but  disapproving, 

BILL. 


43 


to  lord 

LETTER   V 


EVERY  soul  is  born  twins  —  two  separate 
entities  —  Christian  and  Pagan,  Cavalier 
and  Puritan,  Fool  and  Sage.  All  life  is  a 
sort  of  tug-of-war  ;  after  each  bout  one  of 
them  falls  over,  and  lets  the  other  have 
the  rope.  The  Pagan  luxuriates  in  the  ma- 
terial, the  Christian  stands  by  making  sour 
faces  at  him.  The  Cavalier  rides  off  on 
pleasure  bent,  the  Puritan  looks  after  him, 
and  shakes  an  austere  finger.  The  Fool  be- 
haves according  to  his  folly,  and  the  Sage 
sits  on  the  fence  gravely  taking  notes, 
which  he  means  to  read  aloud  to  his  part- 
ner at  some  future  time. 
Isn't  that  deep  ?  I  thought  of  it  yesterday, 
and  I  thought  :  "Bill  will  be  surprised  if  I 
44 


to  JLorfc 


drop  my  colloquial  manner,  and  rise  to 
such  literary  heights  !"  Aren't  you?  Your 
last  letter  was  sterner  than  I  deserve.  You 
hint  that  I'm  incurably  frivolous,  and  ask 
what  my  shoes  have  to  do  with  Herbert 
Forbes.  Nothing  ;  he  didn't  even  see  them. 
I  am  not  frivolous  ;  I  am  only  an  experi- 
menter. The  Bible  —  and  even  you  must 
respect  that  authority  —  says  :  "  Prove  all 
things  ;  cleave  to  that  which  is  good." 
Now,  when  I  really  find  something  good, 
I  shall  cleave  —  like  a  bulldog  !  I'll  send 
you  a  postcard. 

Please   read  once   more  the   above  able 
paragraph  relative  to  our  dual  nature. 
One  of  my  natures  has  done  something 
rather  awful  —  irrevocable.  I  can  see  you 
jump.  "  That  wretched  Mary  !  "  you  say. 
"  What  is  she  up  to  now  ?  " 
It  happened  like  this.  I  spent  Easter  with 
my  dear  friend  Kate  Vernon,  the  truth- 
teller.  She  has  a  delightful  cottage  near 
45 


C&srtfe  Etejs 


Godalming  with  a  heavenly  garden.  Oh, 
how  I  love  that  garden  !  What  is  it  about 
the  spring  of  a  daffodil  that  melts  me  so  ? 
Daffodils  make  me  want  to  be  good  ;  I 
don't  dare  look  at  them  much,  for  there's 
no  use  in  trying  that  sort  of  thing  unless 
one  means  to  really  go  in  for  it. 
Kate  is  a  widow,  and  doesn't  care  much 
for  men.  Isn't  it  curious  ?  She  has  dozens 
of  men  friends  who  like  her  extremely, 
and  think  her  a  good  fellow.  She  hates  to 
be  loved  ;  likes  to  be  treated  like  a  man. 
The  word  "  sex  "  makes  her  almost  as 
angry  as  it  did  Tolstoi  after  he'd  had  a 
dozen  children.  Kate  has  no  children,  and 
regrets  it.  She  longs  to  have  girls  to  bring 
up  sensibly  —  that  is,  without  sentiment. 
Well,  we  were  a  hen-party  ;  not  a  man  in 
the  place  !  Fancy  me  !  Kate  said  I  needed 
a  week  in  which  to  think,  and  find  out 
whether  I  had  a  soul.  She  is  a  rude  old 
dear  ! 

46 


jftarclj  to  lotfl 


She  began  by  a  serious  conversation. 
Here  is  a  resume  : 

"You  are  quite  good-looking,  full  of 
talent,  extremely  attractive,  and  not 
nearly  so  mad  as  you  like  to  appear; 
but  you  have  a  grave  fault.  You  must 
stop  'reaching  out.'  The  more  you  go 
bleating  about,  saying  that  you  want  to 
be  loved,  the  more  nobody  will  love  you. 
Besides,  you  dont  want  to  be  loved. 
You'd  be  frightened  to  death  if  a  man 
really  loved  you.  You  give  every- 
one a  false  impression  ;  you're  a  perfectly 
proper  goose,  and  I  hate  to  see  you  waste 
yourself  on  such  nonsense.  Buck  up,  and 
do  something  !  There  are  other  things  in 
life  besides  love  —  in  fact,  there's  no  such 
thing  as  love." 

Here  I  gasped.  That  seemed  like  a  nega- 
tion of  the  sun  in  the  sky. 
"  No,"  proceeded  Kate,  "  love  to  be  real 
must  be  quite  unmixed  with  self,  A  man 
47 


says  he  loves  you ;  he  means  he  wants 
something  that  you  can  give  him  :  it  may 
be  your  life,  yourself,  or  only  a  comfort- 
able meal ;  but  they  all  want  something. 
What  men  call  love  has  nothing  celestial 
in  it.  You  were  not  born  yesterday  ;  look 
the  world  in  the  face,  as  I  do." 
"  I  prefer  the  world's  face  veiled,"  said  I. 
"  It  will  look  all  the  uglier  when  the  veil 
comes  off,  which  it  will,  sooner  or  later. 
For  Heaven's  sake,"  she  ended  up,  "  dont 
bleat." 

Next    morning,    after    my    early  tea,  I 
wrote  the  following  gem : 

"BLEATS. 

"On  the  grass  the  lambkins  lie, 
Bleating  at  each  passer-by ; 
When  they're  lonely,  or  would  eat, 
It  is  proper  they  should  bleat ; 
They  can  make  their  wishes  known 
Only  in  that  plaintive  tone. 

48 


jHarcIj  to  JLotD 


"  But  a  woman  (although  cracked) 
Must  employ  a  finer  tact. 
When  a  lady,  far  from  thin, 
Putting  on  a  double  chin, 
Reaches  out,  below,  above, 
Right  and  left,  in  search  of  love, 
Heartless  laughs  are  apt  to  greet 
Every  amorous  sigh  and  bleat. 

"  MORAL. 

€t  Ladies  weighing  thirteen  stone 
Must  contrive  to  pine  alone  "  — 

only,  of  course,  I  don't  weigh  thirteen 
stone.  "  Eleven  "  would  have  spoiled  the 
metre. 

All  this  time,  Bill,  you've  been  chafing 
terribly,  and  breaking  out  :  "  What's  the 
awful  thing  Mary  has  done  ?  "  I  love  to 
make  you  fume  —  you're  so  respectable; 
yet  I  love  you,  Bill  —  you  know  that.  Well, 
this  is  the  thing  I've  done.  Stopping  with 
Kate  was  a  really  lovely  woman,  a  Mrs. 
Trapper.  She  has  a  camellia  skin  and  ma- 
49 


C^aflfe  2£ais 


hogany  hair.  She  was  good  enough  to 
take  an  interest  in  me.  ...  I  don't 
think  she's  like  Kate  and  Tolstoi.  She 
doesn't  altogether  disapprove  of  men,  and 
I  fancy  they  admire  her.  She  told  me  I 
was  too  young  to  be  going  about  with 
streaky  front  hair.  In  two  days'  time  she 
had  given  me  face  massage  —  it's  delicious. 
I  must  tell  you  about  it.  They  say  Chris- 
tian Science  is  wonderful  for  the  skin  ;  if 
you  try  it,  though,  don't  neglect  the  mas- 
sage. First  Mrs.  Trapper  steamed  my  face 
till  it  was  hot  and  wet.  Then  with  lovely 
coaxing  fingers  she  rubbed  into  the  pores 
a  sort  of  cream  which  smelt  of  verbena. 
Then  she  dashed  hazeline  on  me,  and 
finally  sponged  my  face  all  over  with  a 
mixture  of  pinkish  powder  and  rose- 
water.  I  declare,  Bill,  I  looked  ten  years 
nearer  the  age  that  my  heart  is  !  Only 
the  streaky  hair  spoilt  it.  Mrs.  Trapper 
then  told  me  that  I  simply  must  go  to 
So 


j&arcty  to  JLotft 


her  place  and  get  my  hair  "  touched  up." 
"Touched  up  "  sounds  so  much  pleasanter 
than  dyed,  doesn't  it  ? 
I  promised  to  think  it  over.  There  was  a 
Christian  Scientist  at  Kate's,  who  said  that 
if  I  gave  her  time  she  could  turn  me 
brown  again  without  dye  ;  but  I  told  her 
that  time  was  the  one  thing  I  hadn't  got 
to  give,  as  I  was  on  the  highroad  to  forty. 
Then,  besides,  how  did  I  know  that  she 
would  get  the  right  shade  ?  You  couldn't 
say  :  "  Just  evolve  me  from  your  inner 
consciousness,  please,  a  shade  or  two  for 
hair,  so  I  can  choose  !  "  You  see  the  para- 
phernalia of  the  Christian  Scientist  is  in- 
visible. I  looked  all  through  the  book 
which  Mrs.  Gulling  had,  but  couldn't  find 
one  word  about  the  complexion.  I  think 
a  new  religion  which  leaves  out  such  an 
important  subject  can't  amount  to  much. 
Even  the  Old  Testament  notices  that 
David  and  Absalom  were  good-looking 
Si 


chaps,  and  David  was  "  ruddy " ;  so  I 
think  Christian  Science  can  afford  to  take 
an  interest  in  skins.  It  does  seem  hard 
that,  when  such  nasty  beasts  as  snakes  get 
a  new  skin  every  year,  pretty  women  have 
to  wear  the  same  one  all  their  lives. 
How  joyfully  would  I  wriggle  out  of 
mine !  .  .  . 

Next  week  I  shall  try  Christian  Science. 
But,  meanwhile,  hold  your  breath,  Bill; 
here  comes  the  long-expected  shock — Tve 
dyed  my  hair !  At  least  a  Frenchman  in 
Buckingham  Palace  Road  has.  I  went 
quickly  before  I  had  time  to  think.  I  felt 
as  fluttered  as  if  I  had  been  going  to  a 
rendezvous.  It  was  a  terrible  job !  I  little 
thought,  when  I  saw  actresses  with  lovely 
dyed  hair,  what  fatigue  the  poor  things 
had  suffered  to  secure  the  effect.  I  was  at 
that  place  three  mortal  hours.  First  they 
shampooed  me,  then  they  rubbed  ammo- 
nia into  my  scalp  till  I  nearly  screamed. 
52 


to  lota 


The  man  knew  no  English,  and,  unfortu- 
nately, of  late  years  my  French  comes 
out  German.  Next  some  stuff  was  literally 
combed  into  my  hair  ;  that  took  ages. 
Next  another  stuff;  and  oh,  Bill,  when 
the  first  spongeful  of  colour  was  put  on, 
I  experienced  what  the  barber  called  des 
emotions!  I  can  hardly  explain  what  I 
felt.  ...  I  shut  my  eyes  and  almost 
prayed.  .  .  .  Well,  it  was  too  late.  My 
hair  was  a  divine  chestnut!  Ten  years 
more  taken  off!  —  head  and  heart  ap- 
proaching each  other  chronologically  !  I 
wasn't  sorry  then,  Bill.  After  suffering 
another  shampoo,  my  nice  Frenchman, 
who  had  murmured  to  me  frequently  to 
be  calm,  dressed  my  lovely  ruddy  mane  to 
perfection,  with  the  wickedest  part  on  one 
side.  .  .  .  I'm  like  a  child  ever  since  ! 
I'm  dying  to  know,  though,  whether  dyed 
hair  has  any  moral  effect  ;  I  must  wait 
and  see.  That  afternoon  I  met  Val  Bankes. 
53 


Charlie 


He  stared  at  me  and  opened  his  beauti- 

ful mouth  till  he  nearly  showed  his  wisdom 

teeth. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Charlie,  what  have  you  done  ?  " 

he  gasped. 

"  Made  myself  nearer  your  age,  dear  boy," 

said  I.  "  I  was  tired  of  being  taken  for 

your  mother." 

"  Oh,  your  lovely  gray  hair  !  "  he  wailed. 

"  You've  spoiled  yourself  !  " 

"  You're  a  disagreeable  boy,"  I  said,  and 

left  him.  When  I  looked  back  his  mouth 

was  still  open.  But  I  don't  live  or  dye 

(what  a  pun  !)  to  please  Val  Bankes.  Pm 

perfectly  delighted. 

MARY. 


54 


to 

LETTER  IV 


MARY,  Mary!  What  have  you  done?  That 
clever,  entertaining  letter  was  simply  to 
lead  up  to  the  odious,  vulgar,  damnable 
fact  that  you've  dyed  your  hair  1  Now,  in- 
deed, I  begin  to  lose  hope.  Charlie  had 
better  chuck  the  navy,  and  come  home. 
Do  you  realize,  I  wonder,  how  common, 
how  low  it  is  for  a  respectable  woman  of 
your  age  —  for  I  believe  you  are  still  re- 
spectable —  to  make  up  like  this  ?  Couldn't 
you  realize  that  those  who  love  you  don't 
care  whether  you're  getting  gray  or  not  ? 
What  would  it  be  to  me  if,  when  I  met 
you,  I  should  see  that  you  had  aged  —  that 
you  were  fading  and  losing  the  beauty  of 
youth  ?  You  would  still  be  my  Mary  —  the 
55 


Charlie  EtejS 


only  woman.  .  .  .  Well,  I  can't  write 
about  it.  /  am  quite  gray.  Shall  I  make 
myself  golden  or  red  ?  Which  would  you 
like  best  ?  And  will  "  Val  "  teach  me  to 
make  up,  do  you  think  ?  By  Jove  !  I  never 
was  so  angry  with  you  !  Stop  and  think, 
and  repent  of  this  hideous  foolishness,  and 
try  to  remember  that  you're  a  lady  ! 

DARRAWAY. 


to  JLotfl 

LETTER  VI 


BILL,  I'm  having  a  beastly  time  !  First,  I 
get  your  outrageous  letter  about  my  hair. 
I  declare  I'd  never  write  to  you  again  if 
it  were  not  for  the  fact  that  I  look  upon 
these  letters  as  a  safety-valve,  and  I  must 
send  them  to  somebody.  In  future  I  shall 
consider  you  in  the  light  of  a  post-office 
—  nothing  more. 

Your  disagreeable  letter  wasn't  all.  When 
I  got  home  I  found  that  my  new  hair 
spoilt  the  whole  house.  You  don't  know 
my  dear  little  house  ?  I  love  it,  and  often 
deny  myself  clothes  so  that  I  may  keep  it 
clean  and  pretty.  And  now  I'm  so  dis- 
couraged that  I  want  to  go  and  live  some- 
where far  away*  Burmah  appeals  to  me 
57 


Cfraflfe  %?ag 


most;  it  is  full  of  pagodas  and  divorces 
.  .  .  but  I'm  not  quite  calm  enough  yet 
to  take  up  with  Buddhism. 
Red,  you  know,  is  my  favomlte  colour. 
My  drawing-room  is  red  —  was  red.  When 
I  got  home  I  went  straight  to  a  ducky  old 
mirror  in  the  drawing-room.  It  was  awful  ! 
—  I  mean  /  looked  awful.  The  room  swore 
at  my  hair  and  my  hair  simply  cursed  at 
the  room  !  What  could  I  do  ?  Hair-dye  is 
more  or  less  a  fixture.  ...  I  had  never 
thought  of  the  paper.  There  was  my 
grandfather-chair,  where  I  always  sit  when 
men  come  to  tea.  How  often  I've  been 
told  that  my  gray  hair  looked  charming 
against  that  dull-red  background  !  Now 
it  was  hideous.  I  fetched  a  hand-glass  and 
looked.  I  tell  you  I  had  more  "  emotions" 
.  .  .  And  the  season  is  beginning,  and 
I'm  awfully  hard  up,  as  usual,  and  the 
British  workman  is  a  snail  —  only  when  he 
stops  with  you  he  doesn't  bring  his  own 

58 


to  JLorti 


house,  but  takes  possession  of  yours  !  I 
cried  bitterly  ;  and  then,  of  course,  my  eyes 
were  red  —  a  third  shade  —  and  everything 
was  worse  than  ever  ! 
In  the  middle  of  all  this,  when  Janet  was 
trying  to  console  me  (she  thought  at  first 
Charlie  was  dead  !  As  if  that—  —  ),  well, 
in  came  my  Irish  friend,  Brian  L'Estrange. 
You  know  Mr.  L'Estrange  !  —  a  mad, 
handsome  creature,  who  shoots  all  over 
the  earth  to  any  place  where  there's  a 
scrimmage,  and  when  you  think  he's  in  Pe- 
kin  or  South  Africa  you  see  him  at  Prince's. 
He  was  looking  quite  lovely.  He  sat  down 
by  me,  and  said  in  his  warm,  South  Irish 
voice  :  "My  dear  girl,  whatever's  the  mat- 
ter?" 

"With  me—  or  my  hair?  "I  asked,  still 
dewy  about  the  eyes. 

"  Your  hair  ?  "  said  he,  looking  at  it.  "I'm 
blowed  !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  perfect  sim- 
plicity. 

5  59 


C^aflfe 


"  Is  it  awful  ?  "  I  asked,  cringing. 
His  beautiful,  deep-blue,  black-lashed  eyes 
rested  on  my  side-parting  for  several  sec- 
onds. 

"  It  has,"  said  he,  "  the  colour  of  the  au- 
tumn leaf,  before  the  frost  has  touched  it." 
I  was  so  encouraged.  How  is  it  that  an 
Irishman  always  says  the  right  thing  ? 
"  But,"  proceeded  Brian,  "  my  dear  girl, 
youVe  inverted  the  order  of  Nature.  You 
let  the  frost  get  there  first." 
"  You,  too  !  "  I  almost  wailed.  "  Val  hates 
it  too  !  " 

"  If  Val  hates  it,"  said  he  solemnly,  "  it 
must  be  changed  at  once." 
Then  he  became  practical.  We  tried  my 
hair  against  everything  in  the  room  —  ex- 
cept Brian's  waistcoat,  as  he  said. 
"  The  paper  must  go,  that's  certain,"  was 
his  verdict.  "  So  must  that  red  brocade 
and  these  lamp-shades.  In  fact,  there  are 
precious  few  things  that  can  stay  in  the 
60 


to  Horn 


room  with  your  hair.  I  hope,  now,"  said 
he,  "  I'm  one  of  the  things  !  " 
He  is  a  good  sort,  and  I  did  enjoy  seeing 
him  again. 

We  settled  on   green  for  the  new  dec- 
orations —  dull  green,  not  emerald.  That 
would  make  me  look  like  a  geranium. 
"  Are  you  goin'  to  make  up  a  bit  now  ?  " 
asked  Brian,  when  we'd  arranged  about 
the  furniture. 
"  Must  I  ?  "  I  quavered. 
"  I  think,  dear  child,  you  must.  But  ask  Val 
to  come  and  experiment  upon  you.  He'll 
know  far  more  about  grease-paint  than  I 
do."  (Brian  has  a  maddening  complexion  !) 
"  Mr.   L'Estrange,"    said    I,   as    he  was 
going,  "  do  you  think  my  new  hair  will 
make  me  any  giddier  ?  " 
He  showed  his  brilliant  teeth,  and  said  in  a 
voice  fit  to  open  an  oyster  without  violence  : 
"  If  it  does,  it's  aU  right  ;  I'm  here.  Ill 
help  you  to  live  up  to  your  hair." 
61 


Charlie 


No  sooner  had   Brian   L'Estrange  gone 

than  Mrs.  Brabazon  came  in.  She  must 

have  passed  Brian  on  the  stairs.  She  was 

as  full  of  coos  as  a  wood-pigeon. 

"  Dear  Mrs.   Charlie,"   she  began,  "  you 

look  as  if  you'd  had  a  scene  !  Has  Mr. 

L'Estrange  been  very  naughty  ?  " 

I  settled  my  countenance. 

"  When  are  you  going  to  publish  your 

novel  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  My  novel  ?  "  said  she.  "  I'm  not  writ- 
ing one." 

"  But  you're  talking  one  all  day  long.  It's 
a  shame  you  don't  write  it,"  1  replied. 
"  I  have  been  told  I  could  write." 
"  You  have  so  much  invention." 
"  I  haven't  time  to  try." 
"  Don't  try  ;  it  does  itself." 
All  this  time  her  eyes  were  glued  to  my 
hair. 

"  How  young  you  look  !  "  she  presently 

breathed  gently.  "  Do  you  know,  I  think 

62 


Jftarc^  to  JLorD 


youth  is  infectious.  Now,  you  go  about  so 
much  with  young  people  that  you  seem 
younger  every  day."  ("  Young  people  " 
meant  Valentine  Bankes.  She  hates  him 
because  he  won't  let  her  coo  at  him.) 
"  Nobody  gets  old  nowadays,"  said  I 
courageously.  "  This  is  the  day  of  the 
woman  of  forty.  In  Balzac's  time  the  dan- 
gerous lady  was  thirty  ;  soon  she  will  be 
fifty.  Twenty  years  from  now  the  hero- 
ines will  wear  wigs  and  plumpers." 
"  It  is  freedom  which  keeps  us  young," 
said  Mrs.  Bobby.  "  I  am  a  widow,  and 
you  are  practically  one,  too.  Husbands 
are  very  wearing  on  the  nerves." 
"  Yes,"  said  I  dryly.  "  I'm  not  quite  so 
much  a  widow  as  you  are  ;  my  husband 
comes  back." 

"  Mine  doesn't,"  said  she  ;  "  or  if  he  does 
I  don't  know  it.  Since  his  death  I  have 
avoided  stances." 

That  set  me  off  into  fits  of  laughter.  I 
63 


C^aflfe 


was   almost  hysterical.  Meanwhile   Mrs. 
Bobby  was   drinking  tea,  which  had  ar- 
rived. She  had  one  eye  on  my  hair. 
"  I  think,"  said  she,  "  we  are  wise  to  pre- 
serve the  appearance  of  youth  as  long  as 
possible  ;  and  one  should  feel  young  one's 
self.  That  hypnotizes   other  people  into 
believing  it." 
I  could  no  longer  resist. 
"  Well,"  I   said,  "  like  Swift,  I've  com- 
menced to  dye  at  the  top." 
She  never  winced. 

"  It's  awfully  well  done,  except  one  lock 
just  behind  the  ear.  You  must  have  that 
touched  up." 

It  really  made  me  like  the  woman. 
"  You  are  clever  !  "  I  said.  "  You  saw  it 
all  the  time." 

"  Why  clever?  It's  as  plain  as  a  sunset." 
"  Well,  now,  is  it  a  mistake  ?  " 
"  That  depends  on  what  you  mean  to  do." 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 
64 


jftattilj  to  JLort) 


"I  suppose  you  know  it's  the  colour  of 
late  suppers  and  divorces." 
"  Good  heavens  !  " 

"  Yes.  Didn't  you  know  it  ?  In  some  cases 
the  dye  comes  first,  then  the  divorce  ;  in 
others  the  divorce  leaves  the  coast  clear 
for  the  dye." 

"  But  I'm  not  going  to  have  a  divorce." 
"  It  isn't  necessary.  You  never  see  Captain 
March  as  it  is.  What  will  he  say  ?  " 
"  He  won't  see  it." 

"  I  thought  there  were  no  short-sighted 
men  allowed  in  the  navy  ?  " 
"  He  isn't  short-sighted.  He   can   see  a 
ship  miles  off.  He's  only  blind  when  he 
looks  at  me." 

"What  a  convenient  man!  Away  for 
three  years,  and  blind  the  rest  of  the 
time." 

There  was  a  pause,  then  Mrs.  Bobby  said  : 
"  How's  your  little  friend  Val  ?  I'm  afraid 
you've  been  treating  him  badly." 
65 


C^artie 


66  He's  all  right.  I'm  a  mother  to  him." 

"  He   has    several    other  mothers.    Mrs. 

Willie  Breton  is  one.  By  the  way,  she's  a 

great  friend  of  Mr.  L'Estrange." 

"  So  I  believe." 

"  You  know  I  never  believe  ill  of  anyone  ; 

but  they  say  that   Willie  Breton  leaves 

the  house  as  soon  as  L'Estrange  comes 

into  it." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  this  is  the  age  of  con- 

siderate husbands." 

"  Val  Bankes  is  an  innocent-looking  boy  ; 

but  don't  trust  him  too  far.  He  hates  me 

now  because  I  had  to  snub  him  horribly 

the  other  day." 

This  was  more  than  I  could  bear.  Mrs. 

Brabazon  had  risen,  and  was  drawing  her 

chiffon  ruffle  around  her  neck. 

"  Don't  go,"  I    said.  "  Do   stay  and  tell 

me  about  my  other  friends.  There's  my 

cousin,  Bill  Darraway.  What's  the  matter 

with  him  ?  " 

66 


jttarclj  to  lorD 


I  felt  catlike  at  that  moment. 

"  Lord  Darraway  is  charming.  I  wonder 

you're  not  in  love  with  him,"  said  she. 

"  I  am,  "  said  I,  "  and  have  been  since  I 

was  six  years  old." 

"  How  wise  of  him  to  live  in  Ireland  !  " 

she  said  as  she  kissed  me.  At  the  door  she 

turned  a  moment.  "  I  like  your  new  hair, 

dear;    it    goes    awfully  well  with  your 

freckles." 

As  the  door  closed  I  threw  myself  on 

to  the   Chesterfield  and   chewed    a   red 

cushion. 

Oh,  Bill,  why  aren't  you  here  ?  I  enclose 

a  lock  of  my  hair. 

MARYO 


jftarclj  to  lorti 

LETTER  VII 


D  AURA  WAY  !  I've  had  a  galling  week  — 
simply  killing.  I  wish  you  would  not  write 
to  me  any  more.  I've  cried  and  cried 
every  minute,  except  when  I've  been  with 
Mr.  L'Estrange  in  furniture  shops,  or 
having  tea  with  Val  in  Bond  Street,  or  at 
the  play  with  Gilbert  Lee.  (He's  a  new 
one.)  If  you  want  me  to  bury  myself,  why 
don't  you  ask  me  to  Ireland  ?  I  can't  think 
why  you  never  do.  How  can  you  expect 
me  to  stay  at  home  and  knit  and  read 
tracts  ?  You  know  I'm  perfectly  good,  and 
I  think  your  remarks  and  warnings  are 
absolutely  insulting.  Yes,  my  lord  !  You 
have  ceased  to  be  "  Bill  "  to  me.  And  yet 
somehow  I  can't  stop  writing  to  you. 
68 


jftarclj  to  lotti 


It's  one  of  those  bad  habits  you  say  I  have 
contracted. 

But  you  are  right  about  one  thing.  My 
old  aunt  (she  was  a  Nonconformist)  used 
to  wag  her  head  and  say,  "  She  who  liveth 
in  pleasure  is  dead  while  she  liveth."  That's 
one  of  those  cheerful  old  texts  that  come 
to  you  when  you  have  indigestion,  and 
your  best  young  man  has  wired  you  in- 
stead of  coming  to  tea.  What  you're 
right  about  is  that  there  isn't  much  fun  in 
trying  to  have  a  good  time.  There  are 
weeks  when  every  single  thing  goes  wrong, 
and  this  has  been  one  of  the  weeks.  I  be- 
lieve I'm  a  Jonah,  without  even  a  whale 
to  swallow  me. 

You  may  think  how  low  I  feel  when  I 
tell  you  that  I  have  worn  that  old  black 
bow,  which  is  losing  its  sequins,  every 
evening.  All  the  plays  I've  seen  are  either 
dull,  indecent,  harrowing,  or  all  three.  In 
one  of  them  there  were  a  lot  of  smart 
69 


Cfraflfe  g?ag 


women  glittering  with  paillettes,  sitting  in 
a  row  like  white  female  Christy  Minstrels. 
They  said  clever  things  in  turn  all  the  way 
down  the  row,  and  then  began  again  at 
the  top.  Nothing  happened  but  paillettes 
and  epigrams.  I  couldn't  write  a  play  —  it's 
one  of  my  negative  virtues  that  I  don't 
try  —  but  I  have  a  sort  of  idea  what  it 
ought  to  be.  An  epigram  should  spring 
from  a  situation,  like  a  lily  from  the  bulb. 
All  these  smart  sayings  are  sewn  on  like 
sequins  ;  they  glitter,  but  you  see  the 
stitch.  In  that  sort  of  play  the  butler 
would  be  as  witty  as  the  duchess.  The 
characters  are  the  masks  through  which 
the  author  shoots  off  his  observations  on 
society.  This  isn't  psychology.  It  has  the 
inorganic  life  of  a  crystal  which  forms  ac- 
cretions outside,  not  the  vitality  of  the 
flower  which  expands  from  within. 
The  next  play  I  tried  was  all  about  the  fash- 
ionable subject  —  two  women  fighting  over 
70 


to  Lotto 


one  man.  I  suppose  when  a  few  more  hun- 
dred men  have  died  in  South  Africa,  those 
who  stop  at  home  will  be  obliged  to  in- 
crease their  precautions  against  what  was 
once  considered  the  gentler  sex. 
I  felt  quite  sorry  the  other  night  for  the 
hero  ;  he  looked  so  little  and  defenceless, 
with  two  of  the  tallest  women  in  Lon- 
don slanging  one  another  over  his  unpro- 
tected head,  exactly  like  a  toy-terrier  be- 
tween two  angry  mastiffs. 
I  came  away  depressed.  Then  next  day, 
after  waking  and  feeling  rather  yellow,  I 
found  that  Harrod's  book  had  come  in, 
and  I  saw  that  I  had  had  more  people  to 
dinner  and  luncheon  than  I  could  afford. 
Everything  to  do  with  money  makes  me 
feel  hollow  in  the  waist.  Do  you  know  the 
feeling?  It's  a  kind  of  hollowness  that 
goes  all  the  way  to  your  boots.  That  made 
me  cry  a  little.  Then  I  got  your  hateful 
letter,  and  that  made  me  cry  more.  I  had 


an  engagement  at  eleven  to  go  with 
L'Estrange  and  select  the  green  for  the 
drawing-room.  I  wanted  to  cry  off,  and 
tell  him  I  couldn't  afford  to  get  anything 
new,  but  I  hadn't  the  courage.  He  was  so 
nice  that  he  made  me  forget  my  poverty. 
He  came  home  to  luncheon,  and  there 
was  nothing  decent  to  eat,  and  that 
plunged  me  again  into  despair.  Isn't  it 
awful  to  be  so  sensitive  ?  I  believe  I  don't 
walk  enough;  I  shall  do  Whitely  exer- 
cises in  my  room.  ...  I  wish  I  had  an 
object  in  life !  There  are  the  poor,  of 
course,  but  there  are  lots  of  people  worry- 
ing them  already,  and  I  don't  know  why 
I  should  add  a  terror  to  poverty  by  calling 
upon  them.  It  would  be  so  hard  to  know 
what  to  say.  I'm  sure  I  should  find  myself 
asking,  "  Were  you  at  the  first  night  at 
the  St.  James's  ? "  habit  is  so  strong ! 
When  Brian  was  gone,  Mrs.  Gulling  ar- 
rived. She  is  the  Christian  Scientist  I  met 
72 


jttawl)  to  lord 


at  Kate's.  She  noticed  my  hair,  and  asked 
me  whether  it  was  C.  S.  or  dye.  I  told  her 
I  couldn't  wait  to  "  get  on  to  '  the  teach- 
ing,' "  as  they  say  in  America. 
She  related  wonderful  things.  One  day  she 
was  in  a  hansom  ;  the  horse  fell,  and  a 
big  dray  was  nearly  on  his  neck.  With  her 
mind  she  held  the  heavy  wheel  where  it 
was,  and  it  went  no  further  ;  so  the  horse 
wasn't  hurt  at  all.  I  expect  if  the  horse 
had  known  what  saved  him,  he  would 
have  been  converted  to  Christian  Science. 
Mrs.  Gulling  says  she  can  be  exactly  what 
she  wants  to  ;  she  evidently  doesn't  want 
to  be  good-looking. 

Perhaps  this  is  what  I've  been  wanting. 
All  my  life  I've  wanted  something.  I've 
gone  in  for  various  religions,  theosophy, 
crystal-gazing,  spiritualism,  but  not  for 
this. 

Do  you  remember  when  I  was  little  my 

faith  was  so  strong  that  when  I  was  out 

73 


Charlie 


at  tea,  and  wanted  to  stop  longer,  even 
when  I  saw  nurse  waiting  for  me  in  the 
hall,  I  used  to  retire  to  an  empty  room, 
flop  down  on  my  knees,  and  pray  that 
she  wouldn't  come.  If  I  could  get  that 
faith  back,  it  ought  to  carry  me  far.  .  .  . 
Yesterday  I  stopped  writing  because  I 
had  a  sore  throat.  I  thought  I  would  try 
C.  S.  on  it,  so  I  shut  myself  up  quite 
alone,  and  said  out  loud  :  "There  is  no  such 
thing  as  pain."  Then  I  swallowed  hard, 
and  it  hurt  just  as  much.  Then  I  said  : 
"  I  have  no  sore  throat  ;  it  is  only  mortal 
mind."  But  it  still  hurt.  Then  I  said  very 
firmly  :  "  I  have  no  throat."  But  I  could 
feel  all  the  time  that  I  did  have  a  throat, 
for  I  was  talking  with  it.  So  I  only  made 
myself  a  liar,  and  kept  my  sore  throat. 
That  night  I  went  to  a  C.  S.  meeting. 
Mrs.  Gulling  was  there.  She  got  up  and 
said  the  same  things  over  and  over.  It 
was  very  soothing,  and  I  dropped  off  and 
74 


jttawlj  to  Horn 


had  a  little  nap.  When  I  woke  a  man  was 
telling  how  he  rid  the  house  —  "  the  'ouse," 
he  said  —  of  black-beetles  by  gently  reason- 
ing with  them.  He  said  it  was  cheaper 
than  borax  or  Keating.  They  were  a  very 
civil,  superior  sort  of  black-beetles,  and 
they  didn't  come  back.  When  I  saw  the 
man,  I  wasn't  surprised  that  they  didn't. 

But  I  still  have  a  sore  throat. 

MARY. 


75 


to  lorti 

LETTER  VIII 


I  HAVE  just  come  back  from  a  wedding- 
Mr.  L'Estrange's  sister  and  young  Sir 
Harry  Bruce.  It  has  made  me  very  sad  ; 
the  girl  promised  all  sorts  of  things  she 
knew  nothing  about,  and  the  groom  knew 
so  many  things  that  he  was  rash  to  make 
any  promises  at  all.  She  is  seventeen,  and 
looks  like  an  apple-blossom.  He  is  thirty, 
and  has  eaten  a  good  many  apples  —  out 
of  other  people's  orchards.  I  almost  hoped 
that  she  would  have  the  courage  to  change 
her  mind  at  the  altar  rail,  but  on  the  con- 
trary she  looked  sickeningly  in  love  with 
Sir  Harry,  who  is  at  least  handsome.  I  al- 
ways remember  hearing  of  a  girl  who  left 
her  young  man  at  the  altar  before  the  par- 

76 


to  Hotfl 


son  began,  because  he  stepped  on  her 
dress  and  said  "  Damn  !  "  What  a  pity  it 
is  that  more  bridegrooms  don't  get  nervous 
and  say  "  Damn  !  "  It  would  choke  off 
the  apple-blossom  sort  of  girl,  and  prevent 
lots  of  matrimonial  failures.  Not  that  say- 
ing "  Damn  1  "  shows  that  a  man's  heart 
is  bad.  It  means  that  his  nerves  require 
hypophosphates.  In  this  neurotic  age 
people  should  be  judged  leniently.  Charlie 
is  a  very  trying  husband  (when  I  see  him), 
but  I  never  heard  him  swear.  If  he  were 
more  violent,  he  would  be  less  tiresome. 
Marriages  are  terrible  things.  The  Voice 
that  breathed  o'er  Eden  breathes  over  a 
Gehenna  very  often  before  the  year  is  out, 
and  then  where  are  you  ?  Isn't  it  prepos- 
terous to  expect  that  two  persons  who 
have  been  brought  up  quite  differently 
should  ever  settle  down  harmoniously  to- 
gether ?  Why  should  they  ?  Then  add  the 
fact  that  they  know  nothing  about  each 
77 


Cfrartte  8?ag 


other,  and  you've  got  very  pretty  material 
for  a  tragedy  —  a  tragedy  that  lasts  longer 
than  a  Chinese  play,  and  has  comic  ele- 
ments which  add  to  its  sordid  horror. 
You  are  saying,  "  That's  all  nonsense.  I 
know  lots  of  happy  couples." 
So  do  I  —  if  you  call  it  happy.  It's  the  kind 
of  happiness  a  cow  has  chewing  her  cud  — 
the  same  thing  over  and  over  —  or  the  res- 
ignation of  a  man  with  a  life-sentence,  or 
else  the  reasonable  contentment  of  two 
people  who  agree  to  differ  and  keep  out 
of  each  other's  way. 

I  quite  believe  that  the  average  woman 
has  a  genius  for  fidelity.  Give  her  a  man 
who  is  fond  of  her,  will  support  her,  and 
not  hit  her,  and  you'll  find  that  she  never 
looks  at  another  man  any  harder  than  she 
does  at  a  cabby  or  a  policeman. 
When  I  married  Charlie  I  was  as  ductile 
as  wax.  And  what  has  he  made  me  ?  He's 
left  me  to  be  run  into  any  mould  that 
78 


j&arclj  to  Lord 


came  along.  I  sometimes  ask  myself  why 
I'm  as  good  as  I  am.  One  reason  is,  I  be- 
lieve in  a  God  ;  and  the  other,  I  honestly 
think,  is  because  far  off,  tucked  away  on  a 
boggy  green  spot  across  the  Irish  Chan- 
nel, is  a  disagreeable,  crusty,  truth-telling, 
quixotic  old  dear  named  Bill,  who  likes 
me  to  be  good. 

Bertie  Forbes  said  I  was  hard  on  Charlie. 
Now,  once  and  for  ever,  I'm  going  to  re- 
fute that  statement.  When  I  met  Charlie 
March  I  was  four-and-twenty.  I  had  had 
a  dozen  offers  (that  would  make  a  funny 
book  !),  and  I  was  tired  of  it  all.  I  wanted 
to  settle  down.  I  had  the  most  exalted 
ideals,  though  I'd  been  a  bit  of  a  flirt. 
(Kate  says  I  shall  flirt  with  the  man  who 
cremates  at  Woking  !)  But  no  man  had 
ever  kissed  me  —  except  you,  Bill  —  that 
day.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember  the  gorse? 
It  smelt  like  pine-apples  and  wine  ;  and 
there  were  larks  singing  —  oh,  so  high 
79 


Charlie 


in  the  blue.  You  only  kissed  me  once. 
Why,  Bill  ?  We  were  cousins.  .  .  .  Well, 
you  went  away  to  Africa,  long  before 
Africa  was  the  fashion,  and  before  it  be- 
came the  fashion  to  die  there  ;  and  then  I 
met  Charlie  March.  He  was  like  plenty 
of  other  clean-shaven,  keen-eyed  young 
naval  officers.  I  seemed  to  dazzle  him,  and 
he  thought  me  clever  ;  and  somehow  when 
he  proposed  I  said  "  Yes  !  "  I  don't  know 
why  ;  but  I  think  it  was  because  I  wanted 
love  —  the  great  cruel,  gnawing  want  of 
my  life,  Bill!  —  and  you  weren't  here  to 
tell  me  what  to  do  —  and  so  —  we  mar- 
ried. .  .  . 

Bill,  he  never  made  love  to  me  ! 
The  third  day  after  we  were  engaged  he 
read  Macaulay  to  me  !  I  shall  never  forget 
it.  I  sat  on  one  end  of  the  sofa,  dying  to 
be  kissed,  and  he  read  me  about  the 
Bloody  Assizes.  I  wanted  to  lay  my  head 
on  his  shoulder,  and  he  kept  telling  me 
80 


to  Lotto 


how  Monmouth  laid  his  on  the  block  !  I 
couldrit  say,  "  Kiss  me  !  Kiss  me  !  I've  a 
great  seething  heartful  of  love  and  pas- 
sion !  Make  it  yours  !  "  When  we'd  buried 
Monmouth,  he  proposed  "  a  brisk  walk." 
Bill,  do  you  believe  Adam,  when  he  first 
saw  Eve,  said  :  "  Come  for  a  turn  in  the 
garden,  my  dear.  It  is  good  for  your 
liver  ?  "  .  .  .  But  I  suppose  they  lived  on 
salad  and  grass,  and  had  no  livers. 
When  Charlie  and  I  married,  he  was  nice 
enough  ;  but  I  knew  that  I  was  nothing 
at  all  to  him  compared  to  his  profession. 
How  often  I've  wished  I  were  a  binnacle, 
or  a  barnacle,  or  some  of  those  queer 
nautical  things  I  don't  know  the  names 
of  !  The  height  of  Charlie's  ambition,  out- 
side of  his  career,  was  to  see  me  darn 
stockings.  I  did  seventeen  one  night, 
while  he  read  to  me  (Froude  on  the  Span- 
ish Armada),  and  I  have  never  stuck  a 
needle  into  one  since. 
81 


Then  he  went  away  for  three  years,  and 
expected  me  to  sit  sewing  till  he  came 
back.  But  I  was  no  Penelope.  When  I 
spin,  it  is  over  the  ground  in  a  hansom 
on  the  way  to  the  play ;  when  I  weave, 
it  is  impossible  romances  of  what  never 
was  and  never  can  be. 
When  Charlie  writes  to  me,  he  ends  with : 
"Do  weigh  your  letters.  The  last  two 
were  overweight."  Or  else  :  "  Try  to  keep 
down  the  expenses,  and  be  more  particu- 
lar about  the  front  stairs.  When  I  was 
last  at  home  I  thought  they  looked 
dusty."  .  .  .  Dusty !  It  makes  me  want 
to  be  dusty — just  a  clean  pinch  of  pow- 
der in  a  little  urn  on  your  mantelpiece, 
Bill !  .  .  .  I  believe  I'm  crying.  ...  I 
wonder  why  ? 

Oh,  if  husbands  would  take  half  the 
trouble  to  keep  our  love  that  other  men 
take  to  try  to  get  it,  how  few  scandals 
and  tragedies  and  tears  there  would  be 
82 


.  ;fttar$  to  Lot* 


in  the  world!  .  .  .  I'm  not  funny  to- 
day, Bill,  am  I  ?  People  like  me  only 
when  I  am  funny.  "  Mary  March  was  the 
life  of  the  party,"  they  say.  Nobody  sees 
the  face  that  I  see  in  the  little  cab-mirror, 
on  the  way  home.  Isn't  it  terrible  to  be 
middle-aged  and  sentimental  ? 
Certainly  I  need  an  occupation. 

Your  affectionate 

MARY. 
P.S.—  Forgive  these  "  bleats  "  ! 


to  ;flfct& 

LETTER  V 


My  dear,  dear  Mary, 
I  didn't  suppose  that  at  my  age  I  should 
ever  come  near  crying  again  ;  but,  then,  I 
had  not  bargained  for  the  effect  your  let- 
ters would  have  upon  me.  Your  letter 
about  marriage  has  caused  me  more  pain 
than  I  thought  I  could  suffer.  It  has 
made  me  feel  that  you  are  a  mass  of  mag- 
nificent material  wasted.  It  is  not  you 
alone  whom  I  pity.  Poor  Charlie,  out  on 
the  God-forsaken  West  Coast  doing  his 
duty,  blissfully  unconscious  that  he  has 
thrown  away  the  cleverest,  warmest- 
hearted  woman  in  England  —  thafs  a  pict- 
ure which  makes  me  sad,  quite  indepen- 
dent of  your  sorrows.  You  were  born  to 
84 


to 


be  unhappy  —  predestined,  as  your  Calvin- 
ist  aunt  would  say.  No  modern,  neurotic, 
brilliant  woman  is  easily  satisfied.  In 
thinking  of  you,  in  summing  up  your 
qualities,  I  doubt  sometimes  whether  any 
kind  of  husband  would  have  seemed  satis- 
factory to  you  in  the  long-run.  Your  rest- 
less mind  is  like  the  sea  —  sometimes  in 
wild  disorder,  sometimes  glittering  and 
rippling  in  the  sun,  but  always  with  the 
long,  deep  swell  underneath. 
Do  you  think  because  I  do  humdrum, 
useful,  unamusing  things  all  day  that  I 
don't  understand  you?  Why,  it  always 
seemed  to  me  that  we  were  two  halves  of 
something  which  Fate  had  sundered.  I 
believe  that  Fate  does  that,  or  that  Some- 
thing higher  than  Fate,  which  we  all  be- 
lieve in  and  worship  in  one  way  or  another. 
One's  affinity,  to  use  a  very  hackneyed 
word,  generally  belongs  to  somebody  else. 
That's  a  fact  which  must  be  faced.  To  stand 
85 


Charlie  gfos 


firm,  to  walk  straight,  to  look  Life  in  the 
face  —  a  cruel  stepmother  face  she  shows 
to  most  of  us  !  —  are  the  only  ways  of  bear- 
ing our  burden. 

You  ask  me  why  I  went  to  Africa,  Mary. 
No  one  but  my  uncle,  who  stood  in  the 
place  of  my  dead  father,  knew  at  that 
time  that  I  was  threatened  with  consump- 
tion. A  man  who  has  a  chance  of  dying 
of  that  disease  must  not  seek  to  form  any 
ties.  You  only  knew  that  I  was  not  quite 
robust,  and  that  I  went  away  for  three 
years.  When  I  returned  my  health  was 
established  and  you  —  were  married.  There 
is  the  explanation  in  a  nutshell. 
I  have  always  been  glad  that  March  was 
a  gentleman.  I  wish  he  might  have  stayed 
with  you,  and  given  you  all  the  love  and 
care  due  to  such  a  woman  as  you  ;  but  I 
feel  that  everything  might  have  been 
worse.  When  you  were  a  girl  you  once 
said  to  me,  when  I  was  quoting  exhorta- 
86 


Horn  ^arratoai?  to 


tions  from  Marcus  Aurelius  :  "  Hang 
Marcus  Aurelius  !  I  wish  he  were  alive,  so 
that  I  might  kill  him  !  "  That  was  one  of 
the  days  when  you  were  not  resigned. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I  remember  the  gorse.  I  never 
see  it  without  remembering.  Only  death 
can  rob  us  of  the  beauty  of  the  spring  ; 
and  every  year  its  blossoms  and  its  birds 
speak  to  me  of  that  long  gone  day.  There 
is  one  friend  who  will  never  fail  you,  Mary, 
whom  nothing  can  ever  estrange.  I  love 
to  think  that  you  care  for  my  good  opin- 
ion ;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  no  opinion 
of  mine  about  you  could  ever  be  bad. 
It  would  be  a  very  dull,  blind  person  who 
could  fail  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  your  white 
soul  —  of  the  real  Mary.  ...  I  could 
write  much  more,  but  it  would  all  be  the 
same  thing  —  that  I  am  inalienably 

Your  devoted 

BILL. 


to  ILorD 

LETTER  IX 


Dearest  Bill, 

What  a  brick  you  are  !  Why  are  you  the 
only  nice  man  alive?  and  why  is  my  other 
half  divorced  from  me  by  miles  of  land 
and  water?  ...  So  that  is  why  you 
went.  Well,  things  are  inscrutable.  I 
mean  to  live  a  few  thousand  years  some- 
where, where  everything  is  better  man- 
aged. Perhaps  we  shall  hit  upon  the  same 
star,  but  I  doubt  it.  I  never  have  any  luck 
where  there's  a  male  in  the  case.  If  I  had 
an  engagement  with  a  tom-cat  or  a 
cockadoodle-doo  I  should  come  to  grief 
over  it. 

Keep  on  liking  me  !  I'm  not  worth  it  ;  but 

when  I  see  myself  through  your  eyes,  I 

88 


to  Lorti 


feel  proud  for  a  week.  I  throw  out  my 
chest  like  a  pouter  pigeon,  and  walk  as  if 
I  owned  the  whole  street. 

Your  loving 
MARY. 


89 


to  lot* 

LETTER  X 


VALENTINE  BANKES  has  been  rather  tire- 
some. He  chooses  to  think  that  he  is  desper- 
ately in  love  with  me,  and  glowers  at  every 
man  who  talks  to  me.  That  sort  of  thing 
is  amusing  for  a  little  while,  but  this  is 
going  too  far.  He  follows  me  about,  and 
you  can't  have  a  boy  as  tall  as  Cleopatra's 
Needle  following  you  about  unobserved. 
He  is  very  well-born  —  his  mother  was  an 
Honourable  —  and  he  has  been  well  edu- 
cated, but  he  isn't  amusing.  A  handsome, 
brainless  man  always  makes  me  think  of 
a  Dresden  clock  without  works.  Young 
actors  are  great  fun  up  to  a  certain  point  ; 
they  always  want  you  to  admire  their 
waistcoats.  Val  wears  charming  ones.  It 
90 


jttarclj  to  JLorD 


isn't  that  the  boy  is  conceited  exactly  ;  he 
only  takes  an  interest  in  himself.  We  all 
do,  only  some  of  us  have  the  sense  not  to 
show  it.  I'm  sure  if  I  were  as  good-look- 
ing as  Val  I  should  fancy  myself  far  more 
than  he  does. 

As  a  rule,  I  don't  cultivate  "  the  profes- 
sion." I've  known  a  good  many  actors,  and 
I  always  think  that  when  the  Creator 
was  dealing  out  consciences  He  had  a  spe- 
cial sort  of  property  ones  for  the  people 
behind  the  footlights.  Of  course  there  are 
plenty  of  bad  consciences  "  in  front  "  too. 
How  easily  one  drops  into  the  jargon  of 
the  theatre  !  and  how  fashionable  these 
people  are  !  I  remember  when  I  was  a 
young  girl  my  mother  wouldn't  have  an 
actor  in  the  house,  and  now,  if  one  is 
lucky  enough  to  dine  at  their  houses,  one 
slinks  in  last,  behind  duchesses  ! 
Val,  as  I  say,  is  becoming  oppressive.  He's 
a  dear  boy,  and  I  like  him,  but  I  don't 
7  91 


Charlie  W&& 


want  his  young  affections,  nor  do  I  desire 
to  blight  them,  so  I  have  decided  on  a  de- 
lightful plan.  Val,  as  I  say,  has  youth, 
beauty,  and  breeding,  but  next  to  no 
money;  so  I've  determined  to  marry  him 
off.  The  first  steps  are  already  taken. 
Charlie  has  a  young  cousin  —  a  girl  of 
twenty,  who  lives  down  in  Cornwall. 
About  a  year  ago  her  father  died  —  her 
mother  had  been  dead  a  long  time  —  and 
left  this  child  something  like  £40,000. 
She  has  lived  all  her  life  near  Falmouth 
with  an  old  aunt  as  duenna.  This  spring 
she  sent  me  some  violets,  which  reminded 
me  of  her  existence.  It  suddenly  occurred 
to  me  :  What  a  wife  for  Val  ! 
I  wrote  to  her  aunt  and  asked  if  the  girl 
might  pay  me  a  visit,  and  the  aunt  con- 
sented. I  have  a  dear  little  spare  room, 
and  Janet  and  I  made  a  fresh  pink  nest  of 
it.  I  felt  quite  motherly  as  I  made  a  new 
pin-cushion  all  myself.  Then  1  asked  Val 
92 


to  JLorD 


to  luncheon  two  days  before  I  expected 
the  girl. 

He  was  in  radiant  looks,  with  that  un- 
quiet spark  in  his  blue  eyes  which  I  don't 
want  to  see  there,  unless  someone  other 
than  myself  kindles  it,  and  —  he  wore  a 
new  waistcoat  !  I  should  like  to  see  that 
boy's  tailor's  bills  !  I  wonder  if  he  ever  pays 
them.  He  began  to  say  pretty  things  to 
me  before  luncheon,  which  is  too  early. 
Compliments,  like  champagne,  should  be 
administered  only  in  the  evening. 
"  Let  us  stick  to  the  claret  of  common- 
place," said  I,  having  expounded  my  the- 
ory. "  I  want  to  ask  you  a  favour." 
He  murmured  that  anything  that  /  asked, 
etc.,  etc. 

«  Oh,  it  isn't  much,"  said  I  ;  "  only  I  want 
you  to  be  civil  to  a  girl  who  is  coming 
here  this  week  —  Geraldine  Treherne,  Char- 
lie's Cornish  cousin." 
Val  twisted  his  beautiful  mouth. 
93 

V 


Charlie 


"  A  girl"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  a  girl,  not  a  hippopotamus  !  Don't 

look  like  that  ;  it  destroys  your  looks." 

He  instantly  smoothed  himself  out. 

"  And  what  on  earth   can  I   do  with  a 

girl  ?  "  he  asked  quite  guilelessly. 

"  Help  me  to  amuse  her." 

"  But  you  always  tell  me  I'm  not  amus- 

ing." 

"  You're  not  —  to  me  ;  but  you  might  be 

to  a  creature  half  my  age,  who  has  lived 

all  her  life  on  the  Cornish  coast." 

"  Is  she  pretty  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  an  idea." 

"  Has  she  money  ?  " 

"  What's  that  to  you  ?  She  wouldn't  think 

of  marrying  you  !  "  (Wasn't  that  artful  ?) 

It  piqued  Val. 

"  I'm  not  dreaming  of  marrying,"  said  he. 

"  You  of  all  women  ought  to  know  that 

while   I   care  for  someone  who    is    not 

free  .  .  ." 

94 


to  JLorti 


"  I  left  off  pinafores  and  turned  up  my  hair 
about  the  year  you  were  born,  Val.  What 
a  dear  little  golden-  haired  creature  you 
must  have  been  !  "  I  observed. 
"  It's  beastly  to  have  golden  hair.  People 
never  let  you  forget  it.  Why  don't   you 
say  you  are  old  enough  to  be  my  mother, 
Mrs.  Charlie  ?  " 
He  looked  quite  savage. 
"  Because  it  isn't  true,  Val.  I'm  only  old 
enough  to  be  your  godmother.  But  now 
about  Geraldine  ;  you  must  be  pleasant, 
but  not  too  pleasant.  She  mustn't  fall  in 
love  with  you  on  any  account." 
Val  smiled  whimsically. 
"  If  you  see  she's  in  danger,  bring  her  to 
see  me  play.  That'll  put  her  off  I  " 
"  She's  too  ignorant  to  know  how  bad  you 
are,  my  dear,"  said  I  ;  but  I  sweetened  the 
insult  with  my  best  smile. 
Before  Bankes  went  I  had  made  him  quite 
curious  to  see  Geraldine. 
95 


Charlie 


Two  days  after  she  came. 
My  dear  Bill,  are  there  no  dressmakers  in 
Cornwall  ?  I  saw  in  a  moment  that  she 
must  be  totally  reconstructed.  Her  sleeves 
were  much  too  large  ;  her  skirt  hung  bad- 
ly ;  her  bodice  wrinkled.  Even  her  stays 
were  all  wrong  —  but,  then,  no  Anglo- 
Saxon,  it  appears,  can  make  stays.  I've 
had  six  failures  in  two  years,  all  because  I 
was  too  poor  to  go  to  Paris,  and  I'm  as 
much  out  of  pocket  as  if  I'd  gone,  and 
nothing  to  show  for  it  but  the  fact  (made 
obvious  by  London  stays)  that  I  weigh 
twelve  stone.  The  child  has  a  charming 
face,  and  what  a  complexion  !  If  I  could 
hate  anyone,  I  should  hate  her  ;  I  covet 
her  skin  so.  But  her  hair  was  dragged  back 
so  tight  that  it  fairly  lifted  her  eyebrows. 
There  were  masses  of  it  —  quite  straight 
and  glossy,  nut-brown  hair,  well-cared  for, 
but  absolutely  unfashionable. 
"  You  won't  mind  if  I  pull  you  to  pieces, 
96 


to  lorti 


will  you,  dear  ?  "  I  asked  when  she  had 

had  her  tea. 

She  looked  alarmed,  and  her  divine  com- 

plexion changed  colour. 

"  Don't  be  frightened  ;  I  only  mean  you 

must  be  dressed.  At  present  you're  only 

covered." 

"  I  believe  I'm  not  very  smart,"  she  fal- 
tered. "  Aunt  Hester  doesn't  know  much 
about  clothes." 

"  I    suppose  you've  all  the  money  you 
want  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh  yes  !  "  said  Gerry.  "  I  can't  spend  it 
all." 

That  made  me  envious.  My  bills  for  the 
drawing-room  will  soon  be  coming  in. 
"  Well,"  I  said,  "  to-morrow  we'll  have  a 
heavenly  day  in  the  West  End  shops,  and 
in  the  evening  we'll  go  to  the  theatre." 
She  clasped  her  hands. 
"Oh,   the  theatre!"   she    gasped.    "I've 
never  been  to  the  play  !  " 
97 


€l)arltc 


She  made  me  feel  a  hundred,  and  yet 
there  was  a  kind  of  hawthorny  sweetness 
and  freshness  about  her  that  did  me  good. 
I  felt  glad,  Bill,  that  I  was  only  frivolous. 
Next  day  we  bustled  about  to  some  pur- 
pose. By  dinner-time  she  was  a  different 
girl.  I  had  bought  her  a  gown  that  re- 
vealed instead  of  deforming  her  lithe 
young  figure.  Her  hair  had  been  dressed 
and  waved  by  my  Buckingham  Palace 
Road  artist,  and  she  wore  a  big  bunch  of 
violets  at  her  breast  and  a  small  one  in 
her  head. 

Val  had  sent  us  a  box  for  the  one  of  Bertie 
Forbes's  plays  in  which  he's  acting,  and 
after  a  neat  little  dinner  we  rolled  off  lux- 
uriously in  a  brougham,  for  which  Gerry 
paid. 

Val  looked  simply  god-like  in  a  Charles 
II.  costume  —  so  beautiful  that  even  I 
forgot  his  pump-handle  style  of  love- 
making.  His  pretty  voice,  too,  was  melt- 
98 


to  tori) 


ing.  He  could  scarcely  speak  his  lines,  he 
was  so  interested  in  our  box.  Geraldine 
glowed  like  a  rose.  After  the  first  act  she 
said  to  me  very  shyly  : 
"  I  thought  Mr.  —  Mr.  Bankes  "  —  here  she 
consulted   her  play-bill  —  "  smiled  at  us  ; 
but  I  must  have  been  mistaken." 
"  Not  at  all,"  I  said  calmly  ;  "  Valentine 
Bankes  is  one  of  my  dearest  friends." 
She  drew  a  long  breath. 
"  Does  he  —  ever  —  come  to  your  house  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Four  days  a  week,  dear.  But  I  shan't 
let  him  come  much  while  you're  there  ; 
he's  too  attractive," 
"  Isn't  he  a  —  nice  person  ?  " 
"  Oh,  unexceptional  ;  but  he's  an  actor  ! 
Perhaps  your  aunt  wouldn't  approve  of 
your  knowing  him." 

She   drew  herself  up  with   very  pretty 
dignity. 

"  I'm  my  own  mistress,  Cousin  Mary." 
99 


C^artfe  Bteg 


"  Knock  off  the  '  Cousin,'  Gerry.  It  makes 
me  feel  a  thousand,"  said  I. 
I  went  to  bed  full  of  joy.  Gerry  was  quiet, 
but  I  could  see  that  she  likes  the  pump- 
handle  style.    .   .   . 

Yesterday  Val  lunched  here.  I  asked  the 
plainest,  most  uninteresting  man  I  know 
as  a  foil  —  a  good,  middle-aged  person, 
who  wants  to  make  everybody  happy  but 
himself.  Strange  to  say,  this  line  of  con- 
duct has  made  him  perfectly  serene.  He  is 
immensely  Val's  superior  ;  but  it  is  a  sad 
fact  that  a  perfect  figure,  yellow  hair,  and 
a  dazzling  smile  make  more  surely  for 
worldly  success  than  a  sallow  complex- 
ion, joined  with  an  altruistic  ideal.  It  is 
unjust,  but  such  is  the  case.  Mr.  Darnwell 
was  perfectly  unconscious  that  he  was 
living  up  to  his  unselfish  standards  by 
setting  off  the  attractions  of  a  selfish 
young  actor,  whose  adopted  mother  was 
bent  on  getting  him  a  rich  wife.  It  is 
100 


ffitarcfr  to 


never  wise  to  introduce  several  attractive 
men  at  once  to  a  girl:  it  only  confuses 
her.  Brian  L  'Estrange  would  have  spoilt 
the  whole  thing,  for  he  has  charm  as  well 
as  beauty,  and  would  have  made  Val  ap- 
pear about  as  magnetic  as  a  pillar-box  — 
or,  rather,  a  lamp-post,  for,  after  all,  a 
pillar-box  does  woo  our  letters  from  us. 
I  didn't  tell  Geraldine  till  the  last  moment 
that  Bankes  was  coming  :  it  would  have 
spoilt  her  complexion.  As  it  was,  when 
she  entered  the  drawing-room  (which  is 
by  this  time  green)  the  sight  of  the  young 
man  standing  on  the  hearthrug  in  all  the 
pride  of  his  manly  loveliness  was  nearly 
too  much  for  the  Cornish  maiden. 
I  never  saw  Val  so  keen  ;  he  actually 
changed  colour.  He's  very  English,  and 
stood  there  with  nothing  to  say.  Presently 
he  faltered  : 

"  I  think  we're  going  to  have  spring  at 
last." 

101 


3WE  Carlie 


"  Don't  think  if  you  can't  do  better  than 

that,"  said  I  tartly. 

Gerry  looked    shocked  at  my  want  of 

reverence. 

Then   Mr.  Darnwell  entered,  beginning 

on  the  threshold  to  fizzle  with  his  phil- 

anthropic schemes.  Through  the  torrent 

of    his    eloquence    shot   little   sprays   of 

the    conversation   which   was    going    on 

between  those    two    absurd  children.    I 

gazed    soulfully    at    Darnwell    right    in 

the   eyes,  and   stretched   my  ears   back- 

ward   to    catch    what    the    two    sillies 

were  saying.   It  sounded  somewhat  like 

this  : 

"  Ah  !  my  dear  Mrs.  March,  there  is  no 

doubt  about  it,  if  we  seek  happiness,  we 

do  not  find  it  !  " 

"  How  true,  Mr.  Darnwell,  how  true  1  " 

"  I   hope  you  liked  the  play,  Miss  Tre- 

herne,  and  didn't  think  me  too  awfully 

bad.   .   .   ." 

102 


jttarcty  to  Lot* 


"  Bad  !   Mr.  Bankes  !   I  never  saw  any- 
one so  good." 

"  Really  ?  How  charming  !  I  suppose 
you've  seen  Irving  and  Waller,  and  Forbes- 
Robertson,  and  all  the  swells  ?  .  .  ." 
"Oh  no.  I  never  was  in  a  theatre  before!" 
I  was  dying  to  see  Val's  face,  but  Mr. 
Darnwell  was  droning  along,  occasionally 
breaking  out  into  a  more  denunciatory 
tone.  I  saw  that  he  was  getting  to  the 
windmill  stage,  when  his  arms  shoot  out 
so  long  that  he  threatens  the  Dresden 
china,  and  one  needs  a  sofa-cushion  as  a 
buffer.  Luncheon  was  announced  before 
any  damage  was  done.  It  was  a  nice  little 
meal  —  several  dainty  courses  —  and  the 
table  looked  charming,  thanks  to  pink 
tulips. 

Everything  suggests  altruism  to  Mr.  Darn- 
well.  I'd  forgotten  that  he  was  not  only  a 
total  abstainer  and  an  anti-vivisectionist, 
but  a  vegetarian.  He  heroically  declined 
103 


Cfrattte 


cutlets  in  aspic  (they  looked  so  nice,  with 
little  curly  cuffs  on  lying  in  a  bed  of 
lettuce),  chicken  —  everything  till  the 
sweet  came.  He  began  telling  me  about 
the  cruelties  of  the  slaughter-house  till 
I  thought  I  should  faint,  and  all  the 
time  he  sacrificed  thousands  of  innocent 
lives  by  drinking  quantities  of  Thames 
water. 

Meanwhile  Gerry  and  Val  had  got  deep 
into  conversation.  She  was  telling  him 
about  the  beautiful  rocky  coast  of  Corn- 
wall, and  he  was  wishing  he  might  see  it  — 
he  who  will  hardly  leave  town  even  in 
summer  to  go  further  than  to  Ranelagh  ! 
She  was  waxing  tender  ;  by  the  time  the 
mayonnaise  arrived  she  had  got  to  the 
pitying  stage. 

"Isn't    the    life    of    an    actor    awfully 
hard  ?  "  she  asked,  with  divine  compas- 
sion. 
Val  looked  sad. 

104 


jttarcty  to  Lord 


"  Oh,  awfully  hard  !  "  he  acquiesced. 
"It  is  when  you  dance  all  night,  and 
go   to   tea-parties   all  the   afternoon,"    I 
cut  in.   Darnwell    was   getting    on    my 
nerves. 

Val  gave  me  a  reproving  glance. 
"It  is  a  curious  profession,"  said  Darnwell, 
rilling  in  the  chinks  with  his  dinner-roll  ; 
"for  a  grown  man,  the  heir  of  all  the 
ages,  made  in  the  image  of  God,  to  strut 
before  the  public  in  a  character  not  his 
own  —  and  for  hire.  .  .  .  It  is  very 
strange." 

Val  appeared  abashed  and  rather  angry. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  one  often  wishes  that 
people  would  wear  characters  not  their 
own.    Any    change    would    be    for    the 
better." 

Darnwell  waved  me  down,  and  in  so 
doing  swished  one  of  my  Venetian  glasses 
off  the  table. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  with  a  cursory 
105 


C&artfe  3£ajs 


glance  at  the  remnants.  "  What  I  wish  to 
say  is  that  surely  there  is  work  to  be  done 
in  the  world  which  should  engross  all  the 
powers  which  men  fritter  away  behind  the 
footlights." 

"  But  the  world  must  be  amused,"  said  I. 
"  We  can't  all  be  so  earnest  and  as  devoid 
of  humour  as— 

Geraldine  broke   in  eagerly  :    "I'm   sure 
there  are  hundreds  of  good  actors." 
"  Morally  perhaps,   not  artistically  !  "    I 
snapped.  I  was   still  thinking  about  my 
Venetian  glass.  * 

The  discussion  raged  all  the  way  upstairs. 
I  was  growing  cross,  and  silently  offered 
Darnwell  a  cigarette. 
"Thanks,"  he  said,  "I  give  way  to  no 
appetites.   Drink,  love,   tobacco  —  all  are 
harmful  to  the  higher  life." 
I  lit  up,  just  to  occupy  my  mouth,  which 
sheltered  an  unruly  tongue  at  the  mo- 
ment,  and    took   Val   off   in    a    corner, 
106 


to  JLorti 


leaving  Geraldine  to  tackle  the  philan- 

thropist. 

"Where  on  earth   did  you  get  that?" 

asked   Bankes,  indicating  the  gentleman 

without  appetites. 

"  Never  mind  ;  it's  going  in  a  minute. 

Look  here,  Val,  you're  not  to  flirt  with 

my  cousin.   It's  awfully  good  of  you  to 

hide  your  real  feelings,  you  know  ;   for,  of 

course,  you  hate  girls.  But  I  can't  go  on 

demanding  the  sacrifice." 

Val's  countenance  changed. 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  he  said  ;  "  I—  don't 

dislike  her  at  all  —  in  fact.    .    .    ." 

I  made  eyes  at  him. 

"  Dear  Val,"  I  said,  "  /  know  whom  you 

love  !    though     I     should     pretend     not 

to.   .   .   ." 

He  grew  still  more  uncomfortable. 

"You  have  always  discouraged  me  so," 

he  murmured. 

"  What  could  I  do  ?  "  I  asked.  "  You  are 

8  107 


Charlie 


one  of  my  dearest  friends,  and  that  is 
something.  But  you  must  not  make  Gerry 
like  you.  Even  if  you  cared  for  her,  her 
people  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  ..." 
And  yet,  Bill,  you  used  to  say  I  wouldn't 
do  for  diplomacy  ! 


108 


to  lLotti 

LETTER  XI 


Dear  Bill, 

Lazy  as  I  am,  I  do  hate  doing  things 
which  are  too  easy.  I  had  arranged  a  long 
amusing  campaign,  and,  behold,  in  less 
than  a  month  the  fun  is  all  over  !  It  was 
not  long  before  Gerry  exhibited  unmistak- 
able signs  of  being  in  love.  She  has  been 
brought  up  on  curates,  and  of  course  Val 
Bankes  is  a  revelation.  He  doesn't  bore 
her!  But  then  she  isn't  cursed  with  my 
exigent  sense  of  humour.  She  has  what  I 
never  will  have  —  common-sense,  which 
will  be  in  abeyance  only  during  the  first 
rosy  weeks  of  courtship.  First  she  began 
to  lose  her  appetite.  One  evening  I  re- 
proved her  for  not  eating.  In  the  middle 
109 


gfljtte  Charlie 


of  it  all  she  turned  a  wan  face  upon  me, 
and  said  : 

"  Mary,  have  you  ever  seen  Mr.  Bankes's 
cigarette-case  ?  " 

I  dissembled,  as  I  had  given  it  to  him 
myself.  It  sometimes  worries  me  to  re- 
member how  many  men  there  are  going 
about  full  of  gun-metal  for  which  I 
paid  1 

"Which  case  is  that,  Gerry?"  I  asked. 
"Val  has  several." 

"  A  gun-metal  one  studded  with  tur- 
quoises," said  she.  "  It  has  '  Val  '  writ- 
ten across  it  in  a  woman's  handwriting." 
"  Oh,  that  one  —  yes.  You  know,  actors  are 
awfully  lucky  about  getting  presents  from 
people." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  something  about  that 
case.   .   .   ." 
"  You  should  ask  him." 
"  Well,  he  saw  me  looking  at  it,  and  he 
did  say  it  was  from  a  woman    ...   *  an 
no 


to  Lorti 


awfully  good  sort,'  he  said,  *  but  quite 
middle-aged.'  .  .  ." 

(These  are  the  moments,  Bill,  which  Prov- 
idence invents  for  us  as  skids  to  clog  our 
downward  course  !) 

I  am  acquiring  command  of  my  facial 
muscles,  so  I  only  said  : 
"  Val  has  lots  of  nice  elderly  women 
friends.  You  see,  he's  an  orphan,  which 
makes  us  all  want  to  be  kind  to  him." 
Why  should  I  bore  you  with  the  rest  of 
this  siUy  affair?  I  will  skip  the  prelimi- 
naries —  you  can  invent  them  for  yourself 
—  and  come  to  the  day  when  Val  formally 
demanded  to  see  me  alone.  Considering 
that  he  has  been  seeing  me  alone  for 
several  years  past,  this  demand  failed 
to  impress  me.  As  soon  as  he  came  in 
I  saw  that  he  had  become  a  real  man. 
His  eyes  burned,  and  his  face  was  almost 
as  pale  as  the  marble  god  whom  he  re- 
sembles. 

in 


C^atlf  e 


"  Oh,  Mrs.  Charlie  —  Mary  dear,"  he  burst 

out  at  once,  "  do  help  me  !  " 

The   "quite  middle-aged   lady"  feigned 

astonishment. 

"  Why,  Val,  you  startle  me  1  What's  the 

matter?" 

"Oh,  I  never  thought  I  could  feel  like 

this  !  It's  awful  —  it's  really  awful  !  " 

"Don't  be  so  wild,  Val.  You  frighten 


me." 


"You  don't  know  what  love  is!  Lucky 
for  you." 

"  I  don't !  Tell  me,  then,  if  it  makes  you 
feel  better?"  (I  was  dying  to  tease  him, 
but  upon  my  word  I  hadn't  the  heart  to!) 
He  tore  up  and  down  the  room  —  of 
course,  he'll  never  look  like  that  on  the 
stage,  or  he  would  make  his  fortune. 
"  Oh,  it  just  takes  you  by  the  throat — and 
it  clutches  your  heart — and  you  lie  awake 
all  night — and  you're  never  hungry,  and 
can't  even  smoke ;  and  all  the  other  women 

112 


to  Lot* 


are  no  more  to  you  than  Dutch  dolls.  .  .  . 

It's  awful!" 

I  sat  there  thanking  God  that  I  had  never 

loved  the  boy. 

"  I  tell  you,  Mary,  if  she  won't  marry  me, 

111—  111—  be  a  Trappist,  by  Jove  !  " 

"  Oh  no,  you  won't,  Val,"  I  said  quietly. 

"It  would  ruin  your  nails  to  dig  your 

own  grave  ;  and  one's  own  coffin  is  a  ter- 

ribly tight  fit  to  sleep  in." 

"Then,"  said  he,  with  unconscious  hu- 

mour, "  I'll  sleep  in  another  fellow's." 

"  Perhaps  you  won't  have  to  proceed  to 

extremities.  Who  is  the  woman  ?  " 

"Why,    can't    you    see?    Geraldine,    of 

course.   .    .   .   Do  help  me,  Mary  !  "  We 

shall  be  poor,  of  course,  but  I  feel  I  can 

work  like  a  demon  for  her." 

"  You  shock  me,  Val  —  and  I  may  say  you 

pain  me.  Only  a  fortnight  ago  you  said 

you  loved  me?  and  I  hid  a  smile  with  my 

hand. 


Val  was  past  shame. 

"Oh,  you  know  how  much  that  sort  of 
thing  is  worth.  Of  course,  I  do  like  you 
awfully ;  I  shall  love  to  be  your  cousin." 
(Bill,  is  this  my  punishment  for  the  many 
occasions  on  which  I've  offered  to  be  a 
man's  sister  ?) 

"  Come  and  sit  down  by  me,  Val,"  I  said, 
"  and  be  sensible.  Do  you  really  care  for 
Geraldine  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  do !  Don't  you  see  how  sweet 
she  is? — like  hawthorn  after — poppies ;  like 
a  fresh  breeze  after — oh,  you  know  what 
I  mean !  I'm  so  used  to  spouting  other 
chaps'  ideas,  I  can't  express  my  own.  Do 
help  me,  Mary.  ..." 
The  long  and  short  of  it  was  that  after  a 
very  serious  talk  with  Val,  I  fetched  down 
Gerry,  and  left  the  two  creatures  alone 
for  an  hour. 

Isn't  it  curious  that,  though  I  never  had 

the  slightest  tenderness  for  Val,  I  retired 

114 


to  lorn 


to  my  bedroom  and  cried  till  I  was  all  the 

colours  of  the  rainbow  ? 

I  know  that  Love  is  a  bird  of  passage  ; 

but  oh,  Bill,  isn't  he  sweet  and  dear  while 

he  perches  ?   .    .   . 

We   have   been  through  an  ordeal  with 

Aunt  Hester.  Geraldine  is  really  her  own 

mistress  —  or  will  be  in  a  few  weeks,  as 

her  twenty-first  birthday  is  nearly  here  ; 

but  she  is  very  fond  of  Miss  Treherne, 

who  has  been  a  mother  to  her  all  these 

years. 

Of  course,  we  wrote  and  invited  Aunt 

Hester  to  come  up  and  inspect  Val.  I  had 

no  room  for  her,  so  I  engaged  rooms  for 

her  at  the  nearest  hotel.  She  arrived  look- 

ing very  grim.  Her  bonnet  was  a  triumph 

of  Truro  millinery,  and  her  mantle  was  of 

the  jetty  kind  which  one  meets  only  in 

buses. 

Geraldine  let  me  receive  her  alone,  while 

she  huddled  on  the  upper  staircase. 


Ggatlfe  Wag 


"Well,"  said   Miss  Treherne,  "you  are 
taking  a  great  responsibility,  Mrs.  March." 
"  Perhaps,"  said  I  ;  "  but  I've  known  Mr. 
Bankes  for  years." 
"  What  is  his  occupation  ?  " 
"  His  grandfather  was  an  earl." 
"  That  in  itself  hardly  constitutes  an  oc- 
cupation." 

"  Some  people  live  handsomely  on  it,  but 
Mr.  Bankes  has  a  profession." 
This  was  the  rock  on  which  there  was 
danger  of  splitting,  and  I  paused  to  gain 
courage. 

"  Of  late  years,"  I  said,  "  numbers  of  the 
aristocracy  have  —  er  —  gone  on  the  stage  —  • 
er  —  become  artists  ...  in  fact,  if  peers 
did  not  occasionally  remove  actresses  to 
another  sphere,  there  would  hardly  he 
room  for  the  ladies  of  good  position  who 
wish  to  embrace  an  artistic  career  -  : 
"  I  know  nothing  about  that,"  said  Aunt 
Hester.  "  It  sounds  interesting,  but  it 
116 


to 


seems  to  have  no  bearing  on  Geraldine's 
affairs." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  I  answered,  "  it  has  ; 
I  was  coming  to  that.  Mr.  Bankes  is  —  er 
-an  artist."  (That's  the  first  He  I  ever 
told.) 

"  Oh,  one  of  those  painter  fellows  ?  We 
get  a  good  many  in  Cornwall  in  the  sum- 


mer." 


"  No,  Mr.  Bankes  does  not  paint — that  is 
to  say,  paints  the  manners  of  the— 
"Look  here,    Mrs.    March,"    said   Aunt 
Hester,  politely  but  firmly,   "  what  does 
Mr.  Bankes  do  ?  " 
I  plunged. 
"  He's  an  actor." 

The  effect  was  instantaneous.  Miss  Tre- 
herne  threw  up  her  hands. 
"Lord  help  us!"  she  ejaculated.  Then, 
after  a  pause  :  "  This  won't  do  at  all." 
I  heard  a  gasp  at  the  keyhole.  Gerry  had 
evidently  left  the  stairs. 
117 


Charlie 


"Oh,"  I  said  hastily,  "you  will  simply 
love  Val.  He's  so  handsome,  so  well-bred, 
and  such  a  favourite  ;  and  then,  you  know, 
he  doesn't  act  much  —  I  mean  he  isn't 
really  an  actor.  Anyone  can  see  that 
he's  a  gentleman  first  and  an  actor  after- 
wards. ..." 

The  old  girl  is  terribly  shrewd. 
"  Then,"  says  she,  "  am  I  to  understand 
that  he  is  not  even  a  good  actor  ?   .   .   ." 
That  was  a  facer.  By  this  time  I  was  per- 
spiring. I  was  thankful  enough  when  the 
door  burst  open,  and  Gerry  sank  palpitat- 
ing on  top  of  Aunt  Hester.  I  meanly  de- 
serted. They  talked  for  an  hour,  while  I 
lay  down  trying  to  collect  my  scattered 
senses. 

Next  morning  Val  came  to  be  inter- 
viewed. It  was  worse  than  a  first  night, 
he  says.  Thank  goodness,  Aunt  Hes- 
ter requested  me  to  remain  in  the 
room. 

118 


to  Horn 


"  I  understand,  sir,"  said  Miss  Treherne, 
"  that  you  are  an  actor." 
"  There  are  several  opinions  about  that," 
said  Val,  glancing  at  me.  Nervousness  had 
suddenly  endowed  him  with  a  power  of 
repartee. 

Miss  Treherne  looked  stern. 
"Do  not  be  flippant,"  said  she.  "You 
wish  to  marry  my  niece.  I  must  ask  you 
several  questions  which  may  be  painful  to 
us  both." 

"  I  am  ready,"  said  Val  nobly. 
The  old  lady  looked  him  over  with  grudg- 
ing admiration. 

"  First  of  all,"  said  she,  "  are  you  aware 
that  my  niece  has  £40,000  ?  " 
Val  was  staggered. 

"  I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing,"  he 
said  simply. 

Miss  Treherne  looked  towards  me. 
"  He  did  not  know  it,"  I  said. 
At  that  she  softened. 
119 


C^artfe  Etas 


"  There  are  a  few  more  questions  I  must 
ask  you,"  said  she.  "  Are  you  in  the  habit 
of  falling  in  love  ?  " 
Val  appealed  to  me. 
"  Am  I,  Mrs.  Charlie  ?  "  he  asked. 
Wretched  boy  !  He  knew  I  was  loyal. 
"  He  has  no  bad  habits,  Miss  Treherne," 
I  answered. 

"  Do  you  feel,"  proceeded  Madame  Tor- 
quemada,  "that  you  care  for  Geraldine 
more  than  you  ever  have  for  anyone 
else?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Val,  with  conviction. 
"  It's  quite  a  different  feeling  ;  I've  never 
had  it  before." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Miss  Treherne,    "  you 
have   been   obliged   to  —  er  —  kiss  a  great 
many  women  ?  " 
Val  blushed. 

"  Well,  not  exactly  obliged.   .   .  ." 
"  On  the  stage,  I  mean." 
"  Oh,  that.  We  very  seldom  kiss  'em,  you 
1  20 


to 


know.  We  make  a  dive  at  a  girl's  ear,  and 
the  audience  don't  see  that  it  doesn't  land 
anywhere." 

All  was  doing  well.  I  breathed  freely. 
"  It  must  be  a  life  of  great  temptation," 
said  Miss  Treherne  solemnly. 
"  I  think,"  said  Val,  with  an  amount  of 
good  sense  which  startled  me,  "no  one 
life  has  more  temptations  than  another. 
If  a  chap  wants  to  be  a  blackguard,  he 
doesn't  have  to  go  on  the  stage  in  order 
to  be  one." 

"  You  may  be  right,"  said  Aunt  Hester. 
"At  the  same  time  I  should  be  glad  if 
you  could  make  up  your  mind  to  leave 
the  stage." 

"Don't   be   selfish,   Val,"    I   murmured. 
"  Give  the  others  a  chance." 
"  I'm  not  particularly  keen  about  it,"  said 
Val  ;  "  only  I  shouldn't  like  Geraldine  to 
support  me." 

"  Surely,   with    your  connections,"   sug- 
121 


Charlie 


gested  Aunt   Hester,    "you    could   get 
something?   Private    secretary,   now,   to 
some  Member  of  Parliament.   ..." 
"You  see,  I  can't  spell  very  well,"  an- 
swered the  modest  boy. 
They  went  on  for  some  time  like  that, 
and  the  extraordinary  end  of  the  matter 
was  that  Val  went  away  engaged,  having 
kissed  not  only  me,  but  Aunt  Hester. 
The  dear  old  thing  actually  blushed  ! 
"A  handsome   creature,"  she  remarked. 
"  No  wonder  Gerry  fell  in  love  with  him." 
I  knew  the  hair  and  the  smile  would  do 
the  business. 

So   there  goes  one  of  my  warmest  ad- 
mirers. I  wonder  who  will  carry  off  the 

rest. 

M. 


122 


to  Lotti 

LETTER  XII 


Dear  Bill, 

Mrs.  Brabazon  is  horrid  about  Val's  en- 
gagement. I  met  her  the  other  day  at 
a  woman's  luncheon  —  a  function  which 
ruins  the  digestions  of  the  women  pres- 
ent, and  the  reputations  of  those  who  are 
absent.  I  suppose  eating  too  much  makes 
us  all  so  uncomfortable  that  we  long  to 
blame  somebody  —  hence  scandal-monger- 
ing.  It  was  the  Americans,  I  believe,  who 
invented  hen-parties  —  not,  if  I  can  judge 
from  those  Yankees  I've  seen,  that  they 
are  indifferent  to  males  ;  but  their  men, 
poor  dears,  are  all  day  grubbing  "  down- 
town," wherever  that  is,  so  if  women 
want  to  give  luncheons  on  week-days, 

9  123 


le  Cfraflte  Wag 


they  must  do  without  their  men.  Beatrice 
says  her  husband  is  so  busy  that  he  rushes 
out  and  consumes  his  mid-day  meal  in 
ten  minutes  ;  it  is  almost  always  tomato- 
soup  and  peach-pie,  whatever  that  is.  It 
sounds  ghastly.  I  can't  imagine  you  eating 
"  peach-pie  "  ! 

Mrs.  Bobby  was  as  fascinating  as  ever. 
She  sat  opposite  to  me,  and  seemed  to  be 
thinking,  between  the  courses,  what  she 
could  say  to  irritate  me.  I  don't  know 
why,  except  that  I've  seen  a  good  deal  of 
Brian  L'Estrange  lately.  Of  course,  all  the 
women  who  knew  Val  were  taken  up  with 
his  engagement.  Mrs.  Trapper  was  very 
decent  about  it  ;  she  has  too  many  inter- 
esting important  affairs  on  hand  to  waste 
time  over  Val.  She  seems  pretty  genuine 
—  except  her  hair  —  and  I  can't  afford  to 
say  much  about  that.  She  spoke  very 
pleasantly  about  Geraldine,  and  appeared 
to  think  the  match  charming. 
124 


to 


Mrs.  Ivor  grew  more  and  more  vexed.  No 

one  else  noticed  it,  but  /  know  a  sort  of 

white  look  round  the  nostrils  which  she 

gets  when  she  is  angry.  True  to  her  meth- 

ods, she  clawed  Val  under  pretence  of  pat- 

ting him. 

"  I  never  understood,"  she  said,  in  her  soft 

voice,  "  why  Valentine  Bankes  has  so  few 

friends  amongst  men.  /  don't  believe  him 

to  be  particularly  vicious." 

"  Vicious  !  "  said  Dolly  Trapper.  "  Why, 

Val  is  one  of  the  sanest,  cleanest,  quietest 

boys  I  ever  knew  !  " 

"  You  think  so  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Ivor.  "  Well, 

you  ought  to  know." 

Her  face  was  peaceful  as  a  summer  day. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Dolly,  "  I  make  it  a  rule 

never  to  contest  a  point  with  a  person 

older  than  myself,  or  one  who  has  had  far 

more  experience  ;  but  I  must  stand  up  for 

Val.  I   think  he's   a  good,   dear,   stupid 

ladi" 

125 


Charlie  %?ag 


"And  he  has  such  a  lovely  mouth  and 
teeth  !  "  murmured  an  unmarried  girl. 
"  And  his  hair  waves  naturally,"  said  an- 
other. 

"  All  aids  to  virtue,"  said  Mrs.  Ivor  with 
sweet  irony. 

"  I  don't  ask  if  a  man's  virtuous,"  said 
Lady  Bloxton;  "I  ask,  Is  he  amusing?  If 
he  ain't,  somebody  else  may  have  him." 
Mrs.  Frant,  a  disciple  of  Mrs.  Gulling,  ob- 
served : 

"  I  imagine  they  are  amusing,  and  then 
they  seem  so." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Trapper  softly  to 
me,  "  her  standard  isn't  a  high  one.  She 
looks  stupid." 

"  I  have  taken  Valentine  Bankes's  part," 
said  Mrs.  Ivor.  "  The  other  day  I  was  told 
that  he  had  had  six  serious  affairs  in  a 
year.  Now,  I  happen  to  know  that  it  was 
only  five,  and  I  said  so." 
"  How  can  you  know  about  more  than 
126 


jttarc^  to  Hoit) 


one  of  them?"  asked  Dolly  with  deadly 
intent. 

The  hostess  was  so  frightened  that  she 
rose,  while  Mrs.  Bobby  still  held  a  straw- 
berry between  her  finger  and  thumb,  and 
for  once  Mrs.  B.  did  something  hastily  — 
she  popped  the  strawberry  into  her  mouth, 
consequently  her  utterance  was  blocked  as 
she  left  the  room,  and  Dolly  glided  away 
to  keep  some  interesting  engagement  ;  so 
peace  was  preserved. 

Why  do  any  of  you  have  anything  to  do 
with  Mrs.  Brabazon?  No  doubt  you  ask 
yourself  that  question,  and  would  like  to 
ask  us.  So  do  we.  The  answer,  I  think,  is 
that  we  are  all  afraid  to  be  anything  but 
charming  to  her.  Val  says  it  doesn't  mat- 
ter how  you  treat  her  ;  she  stabs  her  friends 
in  the  back  as  often  as  she  does  her  ene- 
mies. 

But  rather  a  curious  thing  has  happened 
to  her.  I  must  tell  you  about  it. 
127 


Charlie 


Mrs.  B.  gave  a  luncheon  two  days  ago  — 
not  a  hen  one,  but  mixed  —  and  I,  to  my 
shame  be  it  said,  went.  Brian  L  'Estrange 
was  there.  She  put  him  as  far  away  from 
me  at  the  table  as  she  could,  with  a  large 
clump  of  irises  and  peonies  between  us. 
Though  low  table  decorations  are  the 
fashion  with  Mrs.  Bobby,  spite  must  be  in- 
dulged, though  smartness  be  sacrificed. 
Her  little  house  in  Belgravia  is  the  pretti- 
est thing  of  the  kind  I  ever  saw  —  white 
outside  and  in,  everything  in  it  white,  ex- 
cept its  owner.  It  goes  by  the  name  of 
the  White  Sepulchre,  and  certainly  it  is 
in  one  sense  a  mausoleum,  where  are 
bleaching  the  bones  of  many  a  nice  robust 
reputation.  Who  but  Mrs.  Brabazon  would 
have  had  the  courage  to  attempt  a  white 
drawing-room  in  London?  The  curtains 
are  of  cream  brocade,  the  walls  panelled, 
and  the  rugs  on  the  parquet  floor  of  white 
fur.  On  the  day  of  the  party  there  were 
128 


to  lotft 


masses  of  azaleas,  tulips  and  peonies,  all 
rose-pink,  in  the  corners,  on  the  mantel- 
piece, and  on  the  white  piano  ;  and  Mrs. 
Bobby  received  us  wearing  a  white  Lib- 
erty satin,  and  a  cluster  of  Mermet  roses 
at  her  waist.  It  is  the  reward  of  the  wicked 
and  unsympathetic  to  look  young  long  af- 
ter they  are  middle-aged.  No  tears  shed  for 
the  sorrows  of  others  have  worn  channels 
on  Mrs.  Ivor's  cheeks  ;  and  though  her 
libellous  insinuations  turn  the  hair  of  her 
listeners  gray,  her  own  waving  locks  are 
as  sunny  as  they  were  when  she  was 
twenty  —  sunny  without  the  ministrations 
of  the  French  artist  in  Buckingham  Palace 
Road. 

Dolly  Trapper  was  not  there.  I  fancy  the 
breach  between  her  and  Mrs.  B.  B.  is  so 
wide  that  they  can't  invite  each  other  any 
more.  There  was  a  smart  peeress,  two  ac- 
tresses, and  two  women  whom  I  didn't 
know.  The  peeress  tried  to  behave  like 
129 


Charlie 


the  actresses,  and  the  other  women  aimed 
apparently  at  a  judicious  mixture  of 
both  styles.  Miss  Roland,  the  famous 
leading  lady,  has  acquired  the  repose  of 
a  Vere  de  Vere,  while  Lady  Boxhill 
cultivates  a  habit  of  gesticulation.  I 
heard  them  talking  with  almost  fever- 
ish interest. 

"  How  I  envy  you  your  new  part,  Miss 
Roland  !  "  sighed  her  ladyship. 
"You'd  soon  be  tired  of   it,"  said  the 
actress.    "/   long    for    privacy  and    re- 
pose." 

"  I  wish  I  could  change  with  you.  Will 
you  go  down  to  the  country  and  amuse 
Boxhill,  while  I  play  your  role  and  have 
Sanderson    make    love    to    me  ?  "    She 
simpered  charmingly. 
"  Sanderson   and   I    don't   speak  off  the 
stage,"  said  Miss  Roland  with  a  venomous 
look.  "  I  hate  him  !  " 
"  I've  been  told  I  had  a  talent  for  the 
130 


to  Horn  3^ar  ratoa? 


stage.  Two  palmists  say  so,"   said  Lady 
Boxhill. 

Miss  Roland  looked  as  if  she  knew  those 
palmists.  Just  then  in  rustled  Mrs.  San- 
derson. She  is  more  dressed  in  the  day- 
time and  less  dressed  in  the  evening  than 
any  actor-manageress  in  London. 
"  I'm  so  sorry,  dear  !  "  she  murmured, 
kissing  Mrs.  Brabazon.  "  Paquin  kept  me 
three  hours." 

"  No  one  who  sees  the  result  can  grudge 
the  time,"  cooed  Mrs.  Bobby. 
She  was  inwardly  ravening,  I  know,  for 
her  luncheon  was  being  ruined. 
The  men  were  Brian  L'Estrange,  a  big 
Guardsman,  two  of  Mrs.  Bobby's  infant 
school  —  sweet  boys,  who  worship  for  the 
most  part  silently  —  an  old  baronet,  Bertie 
Forbes  and  young  Lord  Leatherhead. 
How  seldom  a  name  is  so  happily  descrip- 
tive !  Luncheon  was  announced.  I  was  on 
the  other  side  of  Leatherhead,  and  Mrs. 
131 


Charlie 


Bobby  scarcely  spoke  to  him.  Brian  had 
Lady  Boxhill  next  to  him,  and,  as  I  told 
you,  a  bank  of  flowers  quite  cut  off  my 
view  of  him. 

Lord  Leatherhead  is  serious.  Picture  a 
serious  marquess  of  five-and-twenty  at 
2  p.m.  on  a  warm  day.  It  is  my  proud 
boast  that  I  can  talk  to  most  men  and 
make  them  laugh.  But  I  think  this  young 
man  must  belong  to  a  race  where  the  heir, 
when  he  comes  of  age,  is  taken  into  the 
secret  chamber  and  introduced  to  the 
family  bogie.  He  never  smiles  again. 
After  a  few  minutes  I  began  to  wish 
that  he  had  remained  in  the  secret  cham- 
ber and  sent  the  family  bogie  to  entertain 
me.  All  I  could  elicit  (he  ate  conscien- 
tiously) was  that  he  was  writing  a  life  of 
Bossuet,  and  had  hopes  of  regenerating 
the  Tory  party.  When  the  third  course 
came  on  I  gave  him  up.  I  had  made  one 
or  two  sprightly  remarks,  and  he  had  re- 
132 


to  lord 


plied,  «  Ah  !  "  «  Oh  !  "  «  Really  !  "  «  Don't 
say  so  !  "  with  about  the  animation  of  a 
prawn  —  after  it's  boiled. 
Bertie  Forbes  was  saying  witty  things  in 
his  low,  drawly  voice  ;  L  'Estrange  was 
racketing  along  with  his  delicious  brogue  ; 
Mrs.  Bobby  was  flaying  one  of  "  her 
dearest  friends  "  ;  and  /  was  reduced  to 
Leatherhead  and  the  quiet  boy  next  me. 
I  saw  revenge  in  all  this.  Mrs.  B.  hates 
everyone  who  isn't  absolutely  unsuccess- 
ful ;  and  she  likes  L'Estrange.  The  tide  of 
talk  swelled  about  me  like  the  sea,  and  I 
sat  on  my  desert  isle,  high  and  dry.  So  I 
took  notes. 

How  overheated  and  greedy  people  look 
at  a  summer  luncheon  !  Some  of  the 
women  got  redder  and  redder.  Lady  Box- 
hill  was  on  her  third  round  of  moselle- 
cup,  and  her  voice,  as  well  as  her  senti- 
ments, made  it  plain  why  her  lord  prefers 
to  remain  in  the  country.  Miss  Roland 
133 


stuck  to  iced  tea,  and  kept  both  her  com- 
plexion and  her  dulcet  tones.  It  was  al- 
most pathetic  to  see  how  Mrs.  Sanderson 
fawned  on  her  husband's  leading  lady.  All 
the  world  should  know  that  she  wasn't 
jealous.  A  good  many  of  her  beautiful 
clothes  would  have  to  be  gone  without  if 
she  should  quarrel  with  Olive  Roland,  for 
the  public  comes  to  see  her  more  than 
Sanderson. 

Mrs.  Bobby  was  in  her  element.  She  had 
hobbled  me  and  gagged  me  with  a  mar- 
quess. The  game  was  in  her  own  hands. 
At  last  it  was  over.  As  we  passed  into  the 
drawing-room,  she  said  affectionately :  "  I 
haven't  heard  your  voice,  dear  Mrs.  Charlie. 
I  hope  you're  not  ill  ?  " 
"  On  the  contrary,"  said  I,  "  I  never  felt 
fresher.  I've  just  had  a  rest-cure." 
We  were  all  allowed  to  smoke  in  the 
white  drawing-room.  Lady  Boxhill  pa- 
raded her  coroneted  cigarette-case — a  gold 
134 


to 


one  with  turquoise  small-pox  —  and  told 
us  that  she  dared  not  smoke  unless 
"  Jack  "  were  in  the  country.  As  if  any- 
one cared  !  She  wanted  the  men  to  chaff 
her.  Brian  L  'Estrange  saw  it,  and  came 
to  the  rescue,  like  a  nice,  kind  Irishman 
as  he  is. 

"  I'll  bet  you,  now,"  said  he,  "  that  Box- 
hill  didn't  give  you  that  cigarette-case." 
She  was  perfectly  happy,  as  it  is  the  aim 
of  her  life  to  appear  improper  and  eman- 
cipated. As  a  fact,  she's  as  dull  as  ditch- 
water  and  perfectly  respectable  ;  I  sup- 
pose it's  easy  to  be  so  when  one  looks 
rather  like  a  horse. 

Everybody  compared  cases.  The  Guards- 
man had  one  with  this  cynical  inscrip- 
tion : 

"  Love  is  at  best  a  tragic  joke  ; 
Begun  in  flame,  it  ends  in  smoke  ; 
But  he  who  takes  to  cigarettes, 
Has  soothing  joys  without  regrets." 

135 


Charlie 


Brian's  had  :  "  Where  there  is  so  much 
smoke  there  must  be  some  fire." 
Miss  Roland  doesn't  smoke.  She  says  her 
teeth  are  a  large  part  of  her  stock-in-trade, 
and  she  is  afraid  of  spoiling  them. 
Mrs.  Bobby  hasn't  yet  finished  with  Val. 
She  had  a  finishing  anecdote  to  tell  of 
him.  She  says  that  Mrs.  Willie  Breton 
was  so  in  love  with  him  that  he  was 
always  afraid  she  might  kiss  him  ;  so 
whenever  he  went  there  to  supper  he  left 
some  of  his  make-up  on,  thinking  it  might 
put  her  off. 

"  But,"  said  Mrs.  Bobby  in  conclusion, 
"  Fanny  Breton  loves  the  taste  of  grease 
paint." 

L'Estrange  looked  angry  —  Mrs.  Breton 
is  one  of  his  friends  —  but  he  had  no  time 
to  speak. 

The  parlourmaid  flung  open  the  door,  and 

said   something  inarticulate.   In   came  a 

pretty   young  woman  and   a  handsome 

136 


to  JLotfl 


young  man.  She  was  the  image  of  Mrs. 
Brabazon,  and  the  man  had  Austrian 
cavalry-man  written  all  over  him,  from  his 
tight  trousers  to  his  splendid  fair  mous- 
tache. 

The  lady  looked  a  little  confused  by  the 
sight  of  so  many  people,  hesitated  a  little, 
then,  blushing  deeply,  sprang  forward  and 
clasped  Mrs.  Brabazon  in  her  arms. 
"  Mamma  !  "  she  cried. 
I  longed  for  a  Kodak.  Every  jaw  in  the 
room  dropped.  I  thought  Lord  Leather- 
head  would  never  get  his  again.  There 
was  an  intense  silence.  The  young  lady 
released  Mrs.  Bobby. 

"  This,"  she  said,  turning  to  the  young 
man,  "is  Toni." 

"Toni"  advanced  —  a  very  gallant  figure  — 
and  kissed  Mrs.  Bobby's  hand. 
Mrs.  Toni   hovered   near.   Presently   she 
said  in  a  half-  fearful  undertone  : 
"The  baby  is  outside." 
137 


Charlie 


Every  eye  turned  to  the  door.  There  stood 
a  dark-faced,  smiling  Bohemian  nounou, 
holding  an  infant  fastened  to  a  stechkissen. 
You  know  the  things  that  foreign  babies 
are  tied  to  —  they  look  like  cocoons. 
Mrs.  Brabazon  was  magnificent.  I  dis- 
covered afterwards  that  she  hadn't  seen 
her  daughter  for  five  years.  But  she  ral- 
lied her  forces  and  said  :  "  My  dear  J 
Why  didn't  you  wire  ?  When  did  you 
arrive?" 

The  nurse  brought  in  the  baby  —  a  perfect 
cherub  —  and  Mrs.  Bobbys  grandchild. 
Consider  that.  The  guests  rose.  I  think 
they  were  all  afraid  to  witness  the  meet- 
ing between  the  baby  and  grandmamma. 
Mrs.  Bobby  was  nearly  as  white  as  her 
drawing-room.  She  bent  over  the  baby 
and  kissed  it. 

I  don't  think  Nelson  at  Trafalgar  was 

finer  then  she  was  at  that  moment.  She 

was  mortally  wounded,  and  she  deserved 

138 


jftarc^  to  Hott) 


Westminster  Abbey  or  a,  peerage,  or 
both, 

"  Isn't  it  a  darling  !  "  she  said,  with  dry 
lips. 

She  called  the  people  up  to  look  at  the 
child,  and  presented  them  to  her  daugh- 
ter. I  took  pity  on  the  poor  Count  (all 
well-bred  Austrians  are  Counts),  who 
couldn't  speak  any  English.  When  he 
found  that  I  knew  German  and  had  lived 
in  Austria,  he  flooded  me  with  explana- 
tions unhampered  by  reserve.  His  ma-in- 
law  knew  no  German,  so  he  let  himself  go. 
He  and  his  Charlotte  had  been  married 
for  two  years,  but  never  would  the  in- 
human mother  let  her  child  come  to  Eng- 
land. It  seems  the  bugbear  of  Mrs.  Braba- 
zon's  life  was  to  be  a  grandmother.  Clever 
as  she  is,  however,  she  couldn't  prevent 
that.  At  last  Charlotte  decided  on  a  sort 
of  coup  d'etat.  So  she  came.  It  was  awk- 
ward, of  course,  with  all  this  company  — 

10  139 


CDarltc 


"  Toni  "  waved  his  hand  comprehensively 
—but  there  was  no  way  of  bringing 
"  Schwieger  mama  "  to  her  senses. 
The  Countess  looked  a  charming  girl  — 
awfully  afraid  of  her  mother.  We  left, 
however,  feeling  that  "  Toni  "  would  pro- 
tect his  family. 

Later. 

Mrs.  Brabazon  has  got  rid  of  the  family 
by  going  to  take  a  rest-cure  in  Wimpole 
Street. 


140 


to  JLotti 

LETTER  XIII 


I  HAVEN'T  written  for  ages,  Bill  dear.  I've 
been  racketing,  and  am  tired  to  death. 
Dolly  Trapper  and  I  have  become  great 
friends.  She  is  such  a  broad-minded 
woman,  who  really  enjoys  life.  She  says 
she  never  had  a  single  Calvinistic  ances- 
tor, and  that  is  why  she  has  a  good  time. 
She  is  a  friend  of  Brian  L'Estrange  ;  that 
is,  he  isn't  one  of  her  admirers  ;  at  least, 
they  don't  flirt  ;  they're  just  good  pals  ;  so 
we  go  about  together.  Lord  Leatherhead 
is  her  newest  young  man.  I  can't  think 
how  she  stands  him.  To  be  sure,  he's 
good-looking,  but  he  seldom  speaks,  and 
when  he  does  he's  so  boring  that  nobody 
listens. 

141 


Cfrarlte 


We  four  had  a  day  of  it  yesterday  !  We 
began  with  the  Academy,  just  to  steady 
us.  Dolly  asked  us  to  have  a  happy  day 
with  her,  and  so  we  met  at  Burlington 
House  at  11.30.  No  need  to  describe  the 
Academy.  There  are  fewer  babies  and 
puppies  and  kittens  than  usual  this  year. 
The  taste  for  maturity  has  even  invaded 
the  studies.  The  nudes  were  skied,  and 
looked  awfully  ashamed  of  themselves, 
as  they  always  do,  somehow,  under 
a  British  skylight.  They  seem  always 
apologizing  and  begging  for  Turkish 
towels. 

There  were  wonderful  portraits  by  the 
Kitchener  of  Art.  If  I  tell  you  who  he  is 
he  may  sue  me  for  libel  —  or  paint  my 
portrait  for  nothing,  which  would  enable 
me  to  turn  the  tables.  He  is  cruel,  but 
wonderful  ! 

When  our  heads  swam,  and  we  were  too 

tired  to  stand,  we  went  across  to  Prince's 

142 


to  JLorD 


for  luncheon.  You  know  how  I  love  res- 
taurants !  Yet  I  couldn't  eat,  somehow. 
Leatherhead  was  hungry,  and  he  did  not 
add  to  the  gaiety  of  nations.  Brian  talked 
a  lot.  I  wish  he  hadn't  dark-blue  eyes  with 
curly  black  lashes.  They  worry  me,  some- 
how. Dolly  isn't  a  bit  catty  ;  she's  so 
young  and  lovely,  she  can  afford  to  give 
plainer  women  a  chance. 
I  couldn't  help  thinking,  as  I  looked  at 
L'Estrange  and  the  marquess,  that  Eng- 
land was  ill-judged  in  pouring  out  Irish 
blood  in  South  Africa.  It  is  needed  for 
transfusion  at  home.  The  operation  is  so 
well  understood  now  that  nothing  would 
be  easier.  Brian,  for  instance,  has  more 
blood  than  he  needs.  He  might  be  im- 
proved by  losing  a  little.  What  more  sen- 
sible than  to  put  some  of  it  into  Lord 
Leatherhead  ?  In  a  few  moments  after  the 
operation  the  peer  would  make  a  joke  ; 
Brian,  on  the  other  hand,  would  be  less 
MS 


Charlie 


flighty  ;  and  both  would,  by  a  simple  proc- 
ess, attain  the  juste  milieu. 
After  luncheon  we  rode  about  on  a  bus 
for  some  time.  If  we  had  been  forced  to 
do  it  we  should  have  been  furious.  You 
should  have  seen  people  look  at  Dolly. 
She  was  hi  pale  gray,  encrusted  with  cream 
guipure,  and  her  mahogany  hair  had  just 
had  a  fresh  coat.  I  think  Leatherhead  is 
in  love  with  her.  His  mother  will  be  in  a 
wax  if  he  marries  her.  She  is  divorced,  you 
know.  I  forget  who  got  it  —  nobody  re- 
members now.  She  is  so  popular. 
I  love  buses,  and  the  conductor  always 
understands  me.  Let  no  woman  pose  as  a 
femme  incomprise  till  she's  tried  the  kind- 
ness of  a  bus-conductor.  They  sometimes 
offer  to  "  send  me  up  "  things  when  they 
get  down  at  the  end  of  the  route. 
In  England,  the  end  as  well  as  the  begin- 
ning of  everything  is  a  public-house,  so 
I'm  afraid  the  offer  means  gin.  Still,  it  is 
144 


to  lord 


very  kind  of  any  man  to  offer  you  what 
he  cares  for  most  himself. 
Brian  was  delightful.  The  seats  are  rather 
small,  but  we  sat  close. 
When  we'd  bussed  enough,  we  all  went 
to  Bond  Street  for  tea.     By  that  time  my 
nose  needed  powdering,  and  we  retired  to 
our  respective  homes. 
We  met  at  Dolly's  for  early  dinner,  and 
went  to  the  play,  which  was  funny,  and 
made  Lord  Leatherhead    laugh  once.  I 
never  saw  his  teeth  before,  which  is  a  pity, 
as  they  are    beautiful.  If  Dolly  marries 
him,  it  will  be  because  she  wants  to  know 
the  family  bogie.  Perhaps    they'll  fetch 
him  out  for  best  man.  They  say  he  wails 
all  night  in  his  turret  chamber  when  one 
of  the  family  is  about  to  marry,  which 
shows  that  he  is  a  discriminating  bogie— 
for  a  bachelor. 

We  finished  at  the  Berkleton.  I  am  sorry 

that  you're  a  man,  Bill,  for  you  can  never 

145 


Charlie  gteg 


see  the  ladies'  dressing-room  at  the  Ber- 
kleton.  It  is  small.  Women  walk  up  the 
back  of  your  gown,  especially  if  it  is 
made  of  ancestral  lace,  as  mine  was. 
When,  after  patiently  flattening  myself 
against  the  wall  for  ten  minutes,  I  secured 
a  hand-glass,  a  woman  came  up  and  smil- 
ingly took  it  out  of  my  hand. 
I  got  into  a  corner  and  looked  on.  The 
glare  of  electric-light  is  pitifully  trying  to 
middle-aged  town  complexions.  Out  of 
twenty  women,  two  put  black  on  their 
eye-brows,  five  drew  the  pink  pencil  over 
their  lips  ;  but  all  powdered  themselves. 
This  mingling  one's  microbes  with  those 
of  strangers  is  not  a  nice  idea.  But  I  wish 
beauty  were  catching  !  Nothing  nice  is  — 
except  love. 

The  attendants  look  harried.  Oh,  my  dear, 
what  opera-cloaks  !  They  made  me  sick  ! 
Mine  cost  £3  12s.  6d.  in  Kensington  High 
Street,  and  isn't  paid  for. 
146 


to  lott 


Dolly  looked  a  dream.  I  felt  sure  that 
Lord  Leatherhead  would  propose  on  the 
way  home.  We  meant  to  go  two  by  two  — 
the  sociable  four-wheeler  is  Dolly's  aver- 
sion. 

The  waiters   made  me  rather  sad  ;  they 
looked  depressed.  They  seemed  to  be  say- 
ing :  "  Oh,  the  same  bare  backs,  the  same 
powdered  noses,  the  same  shiny  gowns  ! 
Take  us  away  and  give  us  a  rest." 
We  had  not  been  long  at  supper  before 
Brian  whispered  to  me  : 
"  Do  you  see  Dolly's  ex-husband  at  the 
next  table  ?  " 

I  felt  hot  and  cold  at  once  —  one  of  those 
vicarious  chills  which  altruistic  natures 
suffer,  and  which  help  to  age  them.  I 
looked,  and  saw  a  big,  rather  stout  man, 
sitting  fortunately  just  where  Dolly 
couldn't  see  him.  His  face  had  the  regula- 
tion Berkleton  bloom  —  something  between 
a  mulberry  and  a  cherry,  with  a  bluish 
147 


Charlie 


glaze.  His  eyes  were  like  a  dead  cod-fish's. 
When  I  saw  him  I  began  to  understand 
how  Dolly  could  endure  Lord  Leather- 
head,  who  is  well-set-up,  clean-skinned, 
clear-eyed,  and  altogether  a  decent  mem- 
ber of  society. 

Dolly  prattled  on,  quite  unconscious  that 
her  ivory  shoulder  was  almost  in  contact 
with  the  horrid  being  she  has  luckily  got 
rid  of.  What  a  curious  feeling  it  must  give 
one  to  casually  meet  as  a  stranger,  or 
worse,  as  an  enemy,  the  man  who  once 
swore  to  love  and  cherish  one  ! 
Poor  Charlie  hasn't  got  Mr.  Trapper's 
complexion,  at  all  events.  .  .  . 
This  sight  of  Dolly's  ex-husband  made  me 
unhappy  somehow;  and  yet  surely  —  surely 
a  woman  who  has  been  badly  treated 
ought  to  have  another  chance  ?  .  .  . 
In  their  usual  engaging  manner  the 
powers  that  be  turned  out  half  the  lights 
before  we  had  come  to  the  coffee.  This 
148 


Jttarclj  to  lorD 


delicate  hint  that  it  was  time  to  go  home 
was  very  slowly  taken  by  the  pleasure- 
seekers  at  the  tables. 

"What  happens  when  all  the  lights  are 
out  ? "  asked  Dolly  coquettishly,  ignorant 
of  the  mulberry  man  at  her  elbow. 
"  This,"  said  Brian,  as  she  turned  away, 
slipping  his  hand  under  the  table  and 
seizing  mine. 

It  was  weak  of  me,  but  I  couldn't  draw 
away.  I  felt  suddenly  cold  and  homeless 
and  alone  in  that  terrible  crowd  of  half- 
clad  women  and  hook-nosed  men.  Brian's 
hand  was  warm  and  consolatory.  .  .  .  And 
then  we  had  to  go.  Brian  took  me  home 
in  a  hansom.  ...  I  forget  the  rest. 

Your  affectionate 
MARY, 


149 


LETTER   XIV 


I  AM  writing  this  letter  to  please  myself, 
because  if  I  don't  I  shall  go  to  pieces. 
I  don't  know  whether  I  am  happy  or  mis- 
erable. I  don't  know  whether  I  am  good 
or  bad,  or  what  I  am  going  to  do.  My 
two  selves  are  at  it  hammer  and  tongs, 
and  I  myselj  (which  makes  a  third  per- 
son !)  am  looking  on  with  half-closed  eyes 
like  a  person  half-chloroformed,  caring  not 
at  all  which  of  the  combatants  gets  the 
best  of  it. 

It  all  comes  from  loneliness.  When  I 
think  of  the  years — more  than  I  dare 
count — that  I've  been  going  on,  going  on, 
trying  to  do  without  what  I  wanted  most 
— trying  to  smother  the  strong  cry  of  my 
soul,  as  one  drowns  a  squealing  kitten — 
150 


C^arlfc 


then  I  wonder  how  I've  lived.  Always  to 
see  other  women  loved  and  cherished  and 
happy  —  and  to  be  alone  !  Always  to  be 
bright  and  witty  and  lively  —  and  to  come 
home  alone.  Well,  there  comes  a  time 
when  a  woman  can't  bear  it  any  longer.  If 
I  had  a  daughter  it  might  be  different. 
Perhaps  I  could  grow  old  more  gracefully 
—  garland  my  middle-age  with  the  flowers 
of  her  fragrant  youth  ;  I  know  I  should 
have  loved  that  fair  daughter  who  has 
never  come.  But  now  I  feel  only  that  I 
have  never  lived.  It  is  not  only  youth  that 
won't  endure  —  middle-age  glides  unno- 
ticed into  age,  into  a  time  when  all  the 
hair-dye  in  the  world  can't  disguise  us, 
when  pink  powder  falls  into  wrinkles  and 
hollows,  when  we  have  no  more  hope  of 
being  loved  —  that,  perhaps,  is  the  horror 
of  age,  in  a  nut-shell.  And  yet  my  best 
self  knows  and  feels  how  small,  how  piti- 
ful this  view  of  life  is.  I  am  sitting  to-day 


CDarKc  gteg 


before  a  lighted  stage.  On  it  my  two 
selves  are  holding  a  dialogue  —  the  black 
spirit  and  the  white,  which  somehow, 
merged  in  one,  make  that  strange  gray 
personality  which  goes  by  the  name  of 
Mary  March. 

The  white  spirit  says  :  "  Life  is  not 
made  for  self-seeking.  While  there  are 
millions  of  miserable  creatures  coming 
and  going,  is  there  nothing  to  do  but  to 
sit  still,  smiling,  stretching  out  selfish 
hands  for  love  ?  " 

The  black  spirit  answers  :  "  Let  those 
other  creatures  take  care  of  themselves  ? 
There  is  a  God  who  is  responsible  for 
them  as  He  is  for  me.  Am  I  less  misera- 
ble? My  hands  are  not  selfish  —  they  are 
only  empty  !  " 

And  I  sit  meanwhile  in  the  theatre  half 
dazed,  and  listen  unbiassed  to  these 
two  warning  spirits  ;  and  so  the  play 
goes  on. 

152 


C&atlt'e 


Something  holds  me  back  from  the 
abyss.  It  is  less  the  thought  of  Charlie 
than  the  consciousness  that  Bill  loves  me 
—  Bill,  the  strongest,  tenderest,  manliest, 
most  womanly  being  I've  ever  known. 
But  Bill  is  far  away  ;  he  won't  come  to 
me  —  he  will  never  tell  me  that  he  loves 
me.  .  .  .  Once  in  Canada  I  was  on  a 
long  toboggan  whizzing  down  a  frozen 
hillside.  I  believed  that  I  was  going  to 
meet  death  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  but  I 
wouldn't  have  stopped  for  anything  in 
the  world.  The  exhilaration  was  so  mar- 
vellous. .  .  .  What  is  waiting  at  the 
foot  of  this  hill?  Who  knows.  Perhaps 
the  wrong  person  is  steering  me  ;  or,  per- 
haps, like  the  mad,  reckless,  casual  creat- 
ure he  is,  he  is  not  steering  at  all.  He 
knows  that  the  broken  bones  will  be 
mine.  .  .  .  Masculine  bones  don't  break  — 
nor  masculine  hearts  either.  When  a  man 
stumbles  over  a  commandment,  it's  the 


CDartfe 


commandment  that  goes   to   pieces,  not 
the  man. 

Why  do  I  think  I  love  Brian  ?  Is  it  be- 
cause he  is  handsome  ?  I  don't  believe  it  —  • 
many  ugly  men  are  charming.  What  is  his 
charm  ?  I  go  on  analyzing,  analyzing  —  I 
shall  analyze  my  sensations  on  my  death- 
bed, if  I  die  in  bed.  .  .  . 
I  have  never  kissed  any  man  but  Bill  and 
Charlie  —  Bill  only  once  in  a  cousinly  way, 
and  Charlie  so  seldom  in  the  last  five  years 
that  I  could  count  the  times;  but  last 
week  I  kissed  Brian.  I  suppose  people  who 
know  how  much  I  go  about  with  men, 
and  how  freely  I  talk  about  them,  think 
I'm  on  kissing  terms  with  all  of  them.  But 
I'm  not  —  I  never  have  been.  I  hate  that 
sort  of  thing.  I've  never  even  fancied  I 
really  loved  anyone  till  now.  The  misery 
of  it  is  that  I  don't  trust  Brian.  He 
seems  to  me  the  sort  of  man  who  would 
passionately  implore  a  woman  to  elope 
154 


Charlie 


with  him,  and  forget  to  meet  her  at  the 
train. 

If  there's  one  quality  one  must  demand 
in  a  lover,  it  is  trustworthiness  —  a  clumsy 
word  for  a  very  necessary  thing. 
When  a  woman  begins  to  think  about  a 
man  when  he  is  away,  she  had  better  not 
see  him  any  more.  I  know  a  dozen  men 
whom  I  am  always  delighted  to  see,  but 
when  the  door  closes  upon  them,  I  experi- 
ence no  regret.  Those  are  the  comfortable 
men  to  have  about  one. 
This  other  feeling  is  awful.  I  remember  , 
,1  now,  how  he  walked  up  and  down 
id  held  forth  on  the  subject  of  love.  He 
said  it  was  awful.  So  it  is.  It  robs  you  of 
sleep  —  it  makes  you  sick  of  everything. 
Each  hour  is  a  straining,  wearing  longing 
to  see  that  one  person  who  has  mysteri- 
ously become  the  one  figure  in  your  land- 
scape —  the  one  solid  fact  of  your  life. 
When  you  see  him,  he  alone  is  real,  tan- 
11  155 


Cfraflie  %?ag 


gible.  The  world  is  a  shifting  mist,  or  a 
tossing  sea,  where  there  is  only  one  small 
bit  of  earth  to  which  you  can  cling.  ...  Is 
this  love,  or  only  passion  ?  Which  is 
which  ?  Is  this  Nature's  revenge  for  all  the 
years  during  which  I  have  crushed  down 
these  feelings  ?  Who  shall  tell  ?  I  can't  go 
to  anyone.  I  shrink  from  sharing  my 
wonderful  secret.  Brian  is  no  help  to  me. 
He  only  smiles  his  sweet,  brilliant  smile, 
and  says  :  "  I  believe  you  do  love  me,  little 
woman  !  "  And  I  say  :  "  But,  oh,  Brian,  do 
you  love  me  ?  "  He  says  :  "  You  know  I 
do.  I'm  awfully  fond  of  you  !  " 
"  Awfully  fond  !  "  But  /  am  tragic.  I  can't 
take  it  lightly.  I  have  lived  to  be  eight- 
and-thirty  without  this  terrible  disease, 
and  that  is  why  it  is  half  killing  me. 
I  feel  that  Brian  is  not  serious  in  this,  or 
in  anything.  How  many  women  has  he 
kissed  ?  I  should  hate  to  know  !  Do  men 
ever  realize  —  will  they  ever  learn  —  that 


Cfraflfe 


what  is  an  episode  to  them  is  a  sacrament 
to  us  ?  They  kiss  and  ride  away.  That  has 
not  happened  to  me  —  let  me  be  profoundly 
thankful.  But  it  happens  to  other  women 
every  day.  I  had  a  friend  once  who  wor- 
shipped and  trusted  a  man.  I  saw  her  on 
the  day  when  he  left  her  for  another 
woman,  and  I  don't  want  to  see  anything 
like  it  again. 

Bill   says  that    "the    man    who   thinks 
lightly  of  a  woman's   honour   has   very 
little   of  his  own."  .  .  .  Dear    Bill  !  How 
different  my  life  would  have  been  if  he 
had  not  gone  to  South  Africa  !  .  .  . 
Geraldine  Treherne  and  her  aunt  have 
asked   Brian   down  to  Cornwall  for  the 
wedding  —  and  I  am  going  —  unless.  .  .  . 
How  heavenly  to  be  there  by  the  sea  with 
Brian  !  What  will  he  seem  like  there,  in 
the  pure,  beautiful  country,  I  wonder  ? 
Oh,  this  London  —  this  London!  I  can't 
breathe  here  any  more. 
157 


Charlie  3£ajs  atoa? 


I  shall  try  to  be  calm  —  to  decide  whether 
I  am  going  to  Falmouth.  I  must  decide 
alone  —  not  with  Brian  near  me.  I  can't 
think  when  he  is  there.  .  .  , 
This  letter  must  be  destroyed  ;  this  pitiful 
letter  to  myself,  not  meant  for  Bill.  There 
is  another  one  on  my  desk  for  him  —  a 
poor,  deceitful  thing  meant  to  reassure  his 
kind  heart. 


158 


Celegram  from  Lotto  2Dat*atDat  to 


Do  nothing  till  you  hear  from  me.  I  am 

coming. 

BILL. 


159 


lot*  ^arratoat  to 

LETTER  VI 


You  have  had  my  wire.  I  meant  to  leave 
for  London  the  day  I  sent  it,  but  was 
taken  suddenly  ill,  and  have  literally  not 
the  strength  to  leave  my  room.  Oh,  Mary, 
Mary  !  for  God's  sake  don't  see  that  man 
again  !  Your  letter  came  to  me  by  mis- 
take. I  read  spellbound  until  the  end, 
never  dreaming  that  it  was  not  meant  for 
me.  You  must  forgive  me,  for  I  trans- 
gressed innocently.  This  is  no  time  for 
phrases.  How  can  I  implore  you,  how 
persuade  you,  to  break  with  L'Estrange  ? 
I  know  him.  He  will  fling  you  aside  like 
a  soiled  glove  ;  he  will  forget  that  he  ever 
knew  you.  He  can't  love  ;  he  doesn't  know 
what  it  means.  You  force  me  to  tell  you 
160 


Hot*  jDarratoa  to 


what  I  had  meant  never  to  say  :  /  love 
you,  my  dear,  dear  Mary,  with  the  love 
that  has  grown  with  my  life,  which  is 
a  part  of  me,  and  cannot  change.  But  it 
is  a  love  which  asks  nothing.  The  sacrifice 
must  be  mine,  not  yours.  I  will  come  to 
you  ;  I  am  trying  to  be  strong  —  only, 
only,  oh,  Mary,  for  God's  sake  don't  see 
L'Estrange!  How  can  I  make  you  un- 
derstand ?  I  feel  like  a  hysterical  woman. 
.  .  .  Promise  me,  my  own  dear  love,  that 
you  will  not  see  him.  I  am  coming. 

BILL. 


161 


Celegram  from  $h%  fl$at$  to 
lorn 


CHARLIE  died  of  fever  last  Thursday. 

MARYc 


162 


to  ftortt 

LETTER  XV 


As  you  are  still  too  ill  to  come,  I  must 
write  to  you.  The  first  agony  of  grief  is 
past  —  yes,  agony.  Is  it  not  strange  that  I 
should  feel  it  so  ?  It  is,  in  a  way,  grief  for 
being  unable  to  grieve.  Now  that  he  is 
gone,  I  feel  that  I  should  have  tried  to  be 
more  to  him.  Poor  Charlie  dead  !  far  away 
in  that  far  land.  I  thank  God  he  never 
knew  what  a  mistake  we  had  made  ;  he 
was  not  analytical.  I  can't  pretend  —  oh, 
let  us  have  done  with  pretence  !  —  that  his 
death  robs  me  of  anything.  But  it  has 
sobered  me  ;  his  death  and  your  letter 
have  shown  me  what  I  am,  what  I  might 
be.  You  were  right:  the  dream  is  past.  Let 
me  tell  you  once  for  all,  and  then  let  us 
163 


Cfraflie 


never  mention  his  name  again,  how  L'Es- 
trange  has  treated  me.  I  sent  him  a  tele- 
gram at  once,  telling  him  of  Charlie's 
death.  He  did  not  answer,  and  yesterday  I 
heard  that  he  has  returned  to  Africa.  That 
was  his  love.  .  .  .  Are  there  many  men 
like  that,  do  you  think  ? 
Dear  Bill,  if  you  can  bear  the  sight  of  me, 
come  and  help  me.  I  feel  very  broken  and 
very  much  alone  ;  and  there  is  a  good  deal 
to  be  done. 

I  don't  weary  you  with  all  that  I  feel  ?  I 
am  bitter  against  myself  —  oh,  so  humble, 
so  ashamed  !  —  so  hoping  that  you  will  still 
be  my  friend.  It  is  through  no  virtue  of 
mine  that  my  case  is  less  pitiable  than  it 
might  be.  Let  my  life,  what  is  left  of  it, 

show  my  repentance. 

MARY. 


164 


lorn  ^arratoat  to 

LETTER  VII 


Dearest  Mary  —  my  Mary, 
I  can't  realize  that  it  is  a  year  ago  since  I 
went  to  you,  and  found  you  a  poor,  pale, 
sad,  changed  Mary,  who  met  me  with 
downcast  eyes.  Why  were  you  afraid  of 
me  ?  Did  you  think  I  should  not  love  you 
because  you  were  human  ?  because  a  light, 
plausible  scoundrel  had  tried  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  you,  and  failed  ?  That  is  my 
last  word  about  the  past.  Since  then  the 
gorse  has  again  grown  golden,  and  now 
the  heather  will  soon  cover  the  land  with 
royal  robes  of  purple.  And  I  shall  come 
and  fetch  you,  and  years  of  blessed  peace 
shall  teach  us  the  true  meaning  of  life. 
The  gorse  has  faded,  Mary,  but  the  larks 
165 


Charlie  gteg 


are  still  singing.  And  so,  my  dear,  my 
dear  !  though  our  spring  has  past,  it  has 
not  taken  with  it  all  the  music  of  life. 
When  St.  Martin's  summer  smiles  upon 
us,  it  shall  not  find  us  without  melody. 

Yours  always, 
BILL. 


(2) 


THE    END 


1 66 


